Lies & Secrets
by Laylz
Summary: Sweetheart Bella Swan endures a very public, very painful break-up. Edward Cullen refuses to face his demons. Two confused youngsters, one big world and a hell of a lot to learn. ExB OCC
1. Prologue

**Lies & Secrets**

 **Warning: Contains mature themes.**

Prologue

* * *

 **BPOV**

I blame movies. I blame fairytales. I blame him.

I thought he was prince charming; he swept in with his white Porsche, killer smile, perfect hair and expensive tux. I thought he was sweeping me off my feet: wining and dining, daily gifts and endless streams of compliments. I thought he loved me; he told me so, he acted as though it was true and he asked me to marry him.

The worst part of all this is that I really, really loved who I thought he was. And he hurt me. He really hurt me.

It felt like grief. I grieved my naivety, my engagement, and I grieved the man I believed him to be. I did this on the flight home, in the cramped economy seats that I knew so well, with a fraction of my useless belongings in a small suitcase overhead.

It felt like failure. I guess it was.

The sunglasses on my face and the phone in my pocket were the only things worth over a hundred dollars that were with me. Threadbare, faded black jeans were snug on my legs; an old tattered plaid shirt familiar on my skin. Everything else – I left it all in storage.

I was adjusting. But I hated it.

The lady on my left – an overweight, greying, tanned woman wearing a ratty university hoodie – turned to glance my way then back out through the window.

I wondered how the world looked to her. She wore a wedding ring on her ring finger, and she wore some hope in her eyes. Therefore, she was dressed better than me.

I looked too young to have the imprint of a removed engagement band on my finger. And I most certainly was. I knew I looked defeated, from the slight sag in my shoulders to the constant weepy eyes, blotchy cheeks and gritted teeth.

But I hardly expected to look like a supermodel. Storms postponed flights, so the first one I could get was a week later than when I had wanted to leave. I spent seven nights sleeping on a lumpy couch at my drug dealer's scruffy flat, dealing with random guys waking me up in the middle night, trying to tow me towards a bedroom and his never ending stream of women walking in and hobbling out.

It didn't come without it's price. He goaded me into dancing at a party of his, but was kind enough to load me up with enough shit that I can't even remember any of it.

Last night, I answered Mom's call for the first time in months. Partly due to the fact I needed to speak with someone that wasn't stoned, but mostly because she rang constantly for half an hour and I couldn't find it in me to turn the phone off.

First, she screamed at me. She really, really screamed. Eventually, she started speaking at an almost appropriate volume. Most of it was her saying, "I told you so!" and telling me, "You didn't listen!" and asking, "Why didn't you listen to me?"

I sat and took it without speaking a word.

She was very upset, and I guess it brought back memories of her own mistakes. I remember most of them. Ninety percent of them were just really shitty. The other ten percent were secretly married.

Twenty minutes later, my phone was on the brink of dying, and I finally spoke to tell her I needed to go. Sam would be back with some new girl any time soon anyway. She told me to come home now, because what I needed more than anything was peace.

She was right.

The plane landed and I acted as everyone else, calmly pulling my suitcase from the overhead carriers, and waiting patiently in the line to leave. My feet eventually hit the concrete floor. It was pitch black and drizzling just a bit. Everyone filed into the airport, one after the other. My palms were sweaty, my throat dry and my eyes teary. I hadn't seen this airport in two years. I hadn't been home in two years. Guilt twisted in my stomach.

Some people snapped pictures of me, recognising me despite the denim baseball cap, the sunglasses covering my makeup-free face and the plain clothes. Though it was painful how much I wanted to break out into a run, find the nearest exit and bolt, I stopped and took quick pictures with the little girls that asked, and held superficial, brief conversations with them before scurrying through the terminals and towards the door.

Waiting there, pacing by the benches beside the door, was my older sister and my mother. Mom noticed me first, and broke out into a run. I ditched my bags to meet them halfway. And as soon as the two of them tackled me into a hug, I ditched my dignity, too, and I started sobbing hard for the first time in months.

It was agonising bliss.

* * *

 **A/N: I finally found the file! I've been searching for this for so long so that I could reupload it and get back to work on it. Hopefully I'll have something up in the next few days. I hope you guys haven't given up on me yet. :)**


	2. Chapter 1: 21 Today

**Lies & Secrets**

 **Chapter 1:**

 **21 Today**

 **Disclaimer: The plot is mine. Twilight is not.**

 **Warning: This story contains mature themes.**

* * *

 **BPOV**

"Happy birthday, Bella!" It's all I've been hearing all day.

Courtesy of one of Alice's famous ambushes, I'm in a stupid tiara and a strapless, skintight, black minidress. In Vegas. With one of those cliché baby pink '21 Today' sashes around me.

I pull the dress up for the third time in a minute, check as many angles as I can in the mirror, run my fingers through my hair again and then resign myself to stepping into the death trap four inch heels Alice left out for me. They're black, too, and probably obscenely expensive.

Alice pounds on the door. "Everything okay in there?" she asks, already slurring just a bit. Rose can mix a mean drink, and Alice is five foot, ninety pounds and drinks only at Christmas and on birthdays. All in all, she's probably already halfway to needing a stomach pump and a wheelchair.

"Yeah, give me a minute." I say, pushing up onto my feet.

It's not like I've never worn heels, it's just that I've never liked wearing them. They give me blisters, squish my toes and make my feet hurt like a bitch. But Mom said I need to try more think-yourself-happy bullshit, so I try and focus on the fact they make my legs look longer.

I walk to the door, swinging my hips just a bit, and walk out.

Alice doesn't do anything half-assed, so the penthouse is swamped with people. Half of the people here, I barely know. But Alice is my publicist, and she knows how to do her job, so she invited people that are going to make headlines, not people that are going to make my night.

I try not to mind it, but I do.

And I try not to think about how I'm in Vegas and my ex-fiancé is here too, scampering through the city somewhere, but I do. And I try really hard not to remember what today was supposed to be, but I could never forget.

Rose helps, as soon as I'm out, she hands me a Jamaican Smile and I sip it through a pink straw that matches my sash.

"How's it going, birthday girl?" she asks.

Rose looks stunning. Blonde locks long and curled. Plump lips painted a bold red. Voluptuous curves hugged by a matching crimson dress. I smile at her, sip my drink harder, and try not to think about how she got all of the good genes.

"Yeah, I'm good," I say. But she's my sister and I never could lie to her.

"Let's get drunk," she says, a smirk crawling onto her lips.

"Legally," I wink, tipping my cup towards her.

Alice trips her way between us, giggling. She slings her arm around our shoulders and yells, "Right, let's get this show on the road!"

Because that's what it is. It's all just a show.

* * *

The night rages.

A series of limousines rampage through the city, and our blood slowly turns to fumes. Our riches slowly turn to rags and our brains quickly turn to mush.

I'm told enough dirt to bury several careers. But it's just gossip, and none of it really matters because I've heard it all before. This girl's boning that guy, she's cheating, he's on drugs, she's in rehab and he's in jail. Gasp, gasp, sigh.

I know, as I'm climbing out from the limousine, to enter the third bar of the night, that there'll be a new wave of news tomorrow anyway, and what we spoke about today will be old and irrelevant. It's just how things go, the cycle of the rumour mill.

Everyone's a little tipsy now, and I'm buzzed, too. The pixie kidnapped my sister to wingman her back at the last bar and they swore they'd be back in two minutes but I haven't seen them in an hour.

I nestle between some of the girls I know from the backstage at some runways, and they ramble and yap about meaningless shit, and I nod my head and smile until I'm too sober to take it and then I excuse myself to the bar, to douse my misery in something that burns.

The bartender grins at me, "What's the drink of choice, sweetheart?" he asks. He's old enough to have greying hair and his silver teeth gleam in the light.

"Um, I'll have two vodkas, thanks," I say, fingering my birthday sash, feeling so, so clueless and small.

He pouts at me, "The birthday's not going well?"

I shake my head, because my mind is frayed like the hem of my favourite skinny jeans, but I push a smile onto my face because I need to be birthday-girl-happy because that's what I should be. "No, it's great, but you know, when in Vegas, right?"

I don't like the way his eyes gleam and the sound of his laugh, the way he leans close across the bar. It all makes me want to shrivel up and hide. He winks, stage-whispers, "I know exactly what you mean."

He hands me the drinks within a matter of seconds and I pick it up, examine it, think about the time my mother told me to never drink anything blue and how these look exceptionally big for a shot glasses, and then throw each of them back in three big gulps, grimacing.

"Fuck," I mutter, sliding the shot glasses back onto the bar. The man's fingers brush over mine as he takes it back and I jerk my hand away.

"Want another? On the house."

I smile, shake my head, mumble about needing to find my friends. I stumble away, back to the booth of girls that now have a ton of men nestled between them, their arms draped around the girls shoulders. The girls smile and cheer as I approach, handing me two overflowing glasses of champagne.

I plaster my best billboard smile on my face because I need to be nice, and I'm not being nice right now. They're here and they're kind enough and I need to stop being mean all of the time.

Irina drawls, a sexy smirk on her face, looking catwalk ready even now, "Say hi to Bella, boys! Bella's the birthday girl tonight."

She pulls me down next to her in the booth. I try to be a part of the conversation, but it's so surface level and boring that my brain starts dribbling out of my ears.

At some point, the club starts playing Dawn songs, the ones I'm known for writing and singing, even though I don't do either of those things anymore. It's fraudulent, really, but the only compromise the band could settle on was that I remained the face, even if I didn't do shit but stand on stage and mime.

But I can't think about that now. I don't want to think about it ever again.

This song is all Leah's. It's her electro beat and electric guitar squealing and her voice grating on the chords. It's sassy, like her, and a little moody. The words don't mean anything more than what they say – it's simple, one of the ones that soar to the top of the charts in a heartbeat, but are dropped just as fast. My voice is there in the background, so manipulated that it's not really mine. But I had to be there somewhere.

Irina smirks at me and the rest of them squeal.

"Bella, this is your song! Oh my God, we need to dance," Jess exclaims, her hands wrapping around my arms.

I shake my head, I plant my feet and I tell her no.

She pouts and pleads and I shake my head again, but that means nothing because they drag me to the dance floor anyway.

They scream the lyrics I hardly know, but should, and I bob my head and twirl my hips and somehow end up with some random guy that I don't know twisting me under his arm and making me giggle, because everything's funny after this much alcohol.

The song changes to one that's just as meaningless, but this one doesn't have my name attached to it and people don't ask me to sing it to them, so I don't feel as weird.

I wind up with more champagne in my hand, that I pour down my throat and, accidentally, down my dress, too. Irina giggles and this Mike guy uses the sleeve of his expensive suit to help me clean up. I gurgle some thank-you and Irina's older sister, Kate, starts hollering for someone to call the limo to take me home.

"Kate, no, go away!" I whine, trying to shove her hand off of my shoulder, but I'm too weak and pumped full of alcohol to achieve anything.

Kate is Rose's best friend, but she definitely isn't mine. I think she's an insufferable pain in the ass, but Alice says she's some A-list movie star to be, and I have to have her here because then I'll be the girl that knows everyone, and Rose says that I'm a liar because I used to love Kate.

And she's right. I used to. _Used_ to. Which means not anymore, idiot.

Mike kisses me goodbye, and I'm not sure I like it, but it's not really a big deal. He slides a piece of paper into my hand and whispers some words into my ears that I can't hear because of the music blared from the speakers and the blood pulsing through my ears, just before Kate steals me away and carts me out of the club to package me into the back of a limo.

I say some not-nice things to her, because I never want to be kind to her after everything she's done to me. She laughs them all off, because she's just like Rose but worse. She gets in next to me. I sprawl over one of the seats and nestle my head in her lap. Kate runs her fingers through my hair, and for a moment, I almost don't hate her.

"You're not okay, Bells," she whispers to me. "I just want you to be okay again."

I grumble, and my eyes flutter shut. "I'm fine." My tongue feels thick and my words are heavy.

"I can't even understand what you're saying, Bells."

So I just don't say anything at all.

Kate kisses my head and helps me out of the limo when we arrive at the hotel. She walks me inside where some security guards swarm us, trying to usher me into an elevator. She lets me take it on my own then, muttering that her room is on the other side of the hotel, and it's the weirdest thing because as soon as she lets me go, all I want is to have her back.

I stumble into the penthouse, and I find a bed that's empty and relatively clean, and I pass out.

Happy birthday, Bella.

* * *

 **A/N: I made some tweaks to the story so that it worked out better in the long run. Things will hopefully go better this way. Also, I'm not great at writing long chapters so this might be what you get for a while.**

 **Leave me your thoughts.**

 **\- Laylz**


	3. Chapter 2: Cab Driver

**Lies & Secrets**

 **Chapter 2:**

 **Cab Driver**

 **Disclaimer: The plot is mine. Twilight is not.**

 **Warning: This story contains mature themes.**

* * *

 **BPOV**

The next day is an ugly hangover.

My head pounds, I throw up in the sink and I am so dizzy the world spins.

Alice keeps me caffeinated and packs my bags for me. She hands me the clothes I should wear, some black tank top with some blue jeans that fit too tight to be comfortable. I don't question her, because I've learnt that it's just easier not to.  
At midday, once we're all packed up, she grows tired of my jitteriness and leaves to go sight-seeing with Rose, putting our bags in temporary storage on the way.

I haven't seen Rose yet to see this morning; if I had to guess, she probably ended up sleeping in Irina's room. For all Alice's wingman-ing efforts, she'll never actually get Rose to sleep with someone. Not now, anyway, and not for lack of trying on the men's part, but because Rose has been secretly screwing my band mate Emmett for months now. I'm the only one who knows, and that's only because I can make a killer sex on the beach that Emmett cannot resist. So when I saw him holding Rose's hands under the table at one of the meetings we'd been called into, I showed up to his house, got him drunk and interrogated him until I was fairly confident I knew everything.

Not that the knowledge made me any less pissed. It was one hell of a screaming match the next day.

Once Alice is gone, I pour some vodka into my cold coffee and down it quickly. Then I ring up a few friends that I know from the city and head off to meet them at a café downtown.

On the way down the elevator, I push a pair of Chanel sunglasses onto my face and pull a scruffy denim baseball cap onto my head, threading my brown ponytail through the hole in the back. I push some ear buds into my ears and turn my music up until it's so loud it hurts.

It's not good music. I stopped listening to good music ages ago, when I realised I couldn't relate to it anymore. These days, I'd rather listen to the mindless drone of autotuned pop songs. They give me a constant headache, but it's easier this way because they don't remind me of all the feelings I'm missing out on. Sometimes, they even convince me that this is smart – this lifestyle, if that's what you call it.

My plan to walk to the café is ruined the moment I step foot outside of the hotel. The paparazzi are all over me like a rash, screeching question after question and taking picture after picture.

"Bella! Who was that man from the club last night? A new boyfriend possibly?"

"Bella, is it true that you're leaving your band, Meyer?"

"Bella, tell us did you really go to that rehab centre in Phoenix?"

"Bella, is it true that you're sleeping with your bandmate Jasper?"

I stay silent as stone, scowling, and elbow my way to the nearest cab. The driver yelps when I slip in and spins around in her seat, dropping her cigarette. I catch a flash of red hair in a quick glance.

"It's fine," I mutter, waving my hand at him and slamming the door, "I don't care."

I turn to give the driver directions, and my jaw drops at the sight.

Said driver has wild red hair tamed into a pretty bun at the nape of her neck, thick-rimmed black glasses. She's wearing a pretty, off-white, satin blouse, a black blazer and a black pencil skirt. I can't see her shoes, but if I had to guess, I'd say they were six-inch heels – she rarely ever left the house without them.

"Vic?" I squeak.

"Bella?" Her jaw isn't dropped, but her eyes are wide as saucers.

"Holy shit, Victoria, what the Hell happened to you? You're a cab driver now?" There is a snobby disdain in my voice that has no right to be there – I don't know when I became like this.

"This isn't a fucking cab, moron! It's just my car." She glares at me through the lenses of her glasses, from underneath her thick fake eyelashes. Her eyeshdaow is smoky, better than anything I could do.

"Oh." I glance out of the window, where the cameras are still flashing, and then I turn back to Victoria with a timid smile. "Can it be a cab just for two minutes? I can't go back out there or I'll break someone's nose."

She rolls her eyes at me, cursing as she picks up her cigarette from her leather chair where it's burnt it. "Yeah, it'll be your own when you trip over your two left feet again."

I scoff, but don't deny it. She huffs, then tosses her cigarette out of the window, unbuckling herself so that she can fully turn around and stare at me. Luckily, the windows are heavily tinted, so the paps won't be able to get any good shots.

The last time I saw Victoria was when she arrived sobbing on my doorstep, trying to apologise. Apologise for the time when she was rushing to pull some clothes on and scrambling to get out of my fiance's bed, James Denali's bed, trying to blubber her way through an explanation.

But there was none. She had been my flatmate, my friend, and she'd been fucking my fiancé behind my back.

Last I heard, she was working as an assistant of some kind. It hardly seems to matter now.

Some part of me, the parts that I buried, want me to scream at her and slam the doors and make such a scene that it'll be on every paper, in every language, and I'll go to prison for assault, or something of that nature. But I don't. I feel less angry, more hurt, which kind of really sucks.

She sighs, turning the engine on. "Where do I drop you?"

"Just drive towards the centre and I'll get out before the traffic gets heavy."

She shakes her head as she turns into the lane and starts off, "My boss is going to kill me." I raise an eyebrow at her in the rearview mirror, pulling my earphones out and dropping them into my lap. I pull my sunglasses off, too. She elaborates, "I'm supposed to be driving him to a lunch meeting."

"Who do you work for now?" I ask conversationally, trying my best to recall the name. It was familiar, when Rose told me a couple months ago.

She glances at me nervously in the rearview mirror. "An actor," she answers vaguely, waving her hand dismissively.

It piques my interest because she won't tell me, which makes me think it's bad. "Oh yeah? Who?"

She shrugs, glancing at me again this time over her shoulder. I narrow my eyes at her. She turns back and sighs. "Edward Cullen, Bella. I work for Edward Cullen."

If I had a drink in my mouth, I'd have spat it out all over her leather seats. As it is, I watch my face drain of colour in the rear view mirror and do my best not to let the shock show on my face.

"Oh. Well. I'm glad you're not a cab driver, at least," is the best I can come up with. She doesn't respond, just turns on the radio to fill the awkward silence that ensues.

She drives me two streets away, so that I'm only four blocks from the café. She pulls over, opening and closing her mouth a few times before she eventually spits out, "I'm so sorry!"

I shrug at her, neither accepting nor turning away her apology.

"Bella, seriously, I never meant to hurt you that way and now I just feel terrible because I swear I didn't even realise that Edward was the Edward you used to speak about until I was working with him for a few months and saw this picture of- Oh crap, I'm sorry! Don't hate me," she yells.

I shake my head at her. "It's over now, Vic." I push a smile onto my face, even though I don't feel like smiling much at all. I reach into my purse to grab some money but she doesn't take it when I pass it in, so I wedge it between the seats. She'll find it one day.

"See you around, Vic," I murmur as I slip from the car, "and thanks for driving me."

She smiles sadly at me. "No problem, Bella."

I wave at her, then slam the door shut and start walking in the direction of the café I'm meeting my friends at, though I don't feel much like meeting anyone now. When I arrive there, they've already ordered the drinks and they've got my order wrong – a plain, black coffee which I can hardly stomach – but I thank them and sip it regardless. I only have to smell it to know that it's more alcohol than coffee, but I'm hardly surprised. I know what kind of people these guys are. They're the only people I can hang out with these days, because every one else is tired with me.

It's not their fault, though, that I'm this way. It's not their fault at all.

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, so I'm sorry for being away for so long and leaving this story the way I did. I honestly feel terrible about it. Also, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared of posting again for fear of backlash for leaving my readers so high and dry for such a long time. Sorry about that, ladies and gents. Hopefully you've not given up on my story, because I've spent some time writing out the next 3 chapters, and I'll maybe get some more done soon.**

 **I still feel bad. I understand if you can't get back into this story and appreciate the time you've already given it.**

 **Leave me your thoughts.**

 **\- Laylz**


	4. Chapter 3: The Three Ps

**Lies & Secrets**

 **Chapter 3:**

 **The 3 Ps**

 **Disclaimer: The plot is mine. Twilight is not.**

 **Warning: This story contains mature themes.**

* * *

 **BPOV**

Thirteen hours, two missed flights, one hell of a lecture from a tired and grumpy Alice and more drinks than I can count and a pill that a guy called Mark told me would make me feel floaty later, I stumble into my apartment on the outskirts of LA.

The place is cramped, messy and not nearly well ventilated enough. The white paint is peeling, it smells like damp and my mattress is definitely screwing up my back. Only one person can fit into the kitchen, the shower is a slow spurt of mostly cold water and I can never properly explain why I don't move out, but I won't.

Part of me just wants to stay because it's quiet in this apartment block. Mostly, though, I like it because this is where it started. This was my first apartment when I moved to LA. One that I shared with Jasper until we made some money and his then (now ex) girlfriend Maria started getting snippy that he was living with another girl. So I moved out, into a nicer, more expensive apartment with Victoria, who was working in my uncle Aro's firm at the time, and he moved in with Maria.

I moved back in this shithole after the stint of therapy I did back home in Phoenix. It's a memory that I'm not ready to let go of – the memory of myself before James, before the big breakup that people still talk about today, and before I turned into whatever person this is.

I drop my bags by the door, slam it shut behind me and trip my way to my room, where I can't sleep but I force myself to stay in bed. I roll around, tossing and turning, until a reasonable hour to wake.

Then, as I'm dressing in yoga pants and an old t-shirt, I realise I have nothing to wake up for. The band is still resting after tour – we're back to work next week, although work is a generous word for my contribution – and I don't think they'd appreciate my company, anyway.

The friend group that I was a part of a few months ago gave me an ultimatum that I didn't abide by, so they've gone on strike as friends until I "get better" – whatever the hell that means. I shrugged it off when they told me, but it hurt. It hurt a fucking lot, because they don't see that there is no better for me. There is sober, but that's not better – that's a lot, lot worse.

Whatever. I can't think about it anymore or it'll give me a headache.

I pop my morning pills. They are prescription; it's just not my prescription. They make me feel fuzzy, far away and less terrible. They're great. I grab a water bottle, a change of clothes, my ID, my purse and my keys then I leave.

At seven am, I arrive at the gym I frequent. Or at least, I attempt to come here frequently. It's a rundown, unpopular place that some hipsters come to because it looks 'urban'. Otherwise, it's just the broke LA hopefuls – aspiring actors, models, singers, artists, writers and so on. Nobody bothers me. I'm not sure if they recognise me, or if they don't, or if they don't care either way, but I'm left alone for my two hours there. Which is nice and quiet, but also bitter and lonely.

Today, I choose to shower at the gym – because the showers here are better than mine and I don't want to go to Rose's for one today – then change into clean clothes that I brought with me – jeans, a t-shirt and some scruffy sneakers.

When I leave, I drive home and stop off at Royce's on my way, which is only a block from my gym. Royce King's off license is an open secret. It sells everything you could ever want to get fucked up. It's the Target of drugs. This is a place I actually do frequent, much too often.

Royce is stood outside smoking when I arrive, with a group of friends that are dressed much too neatly for the area. There are four men in pristine black suits, and then there's Royce, in his old, faded jeans that hang low and a holey t-shirt. He dresses like shit, but he still looks good. Royce always looks good, even though there's dust in his hair, oil splatters on his clothes, blood splashes on his arms, and the name of his ex-wife Shannon running down his forearm.

He recognises me by my beast of a truck and grins. When I step out, he shouts, "My Bella! Gentlemen, meet my Bella."

I raise a brow at him as I approach and he looks over my attire with disgust. "How does it feel to be twenty one, babe?" He throws an arm over my shoulders once within arms distance and yanks me closer than I'd like. But I don't really care, because it's just Royce.

"Bella, these are my new lawyers."

I furrow my brows at him, a tight panic in my chest. I can't afford another scandal, and if anyone catches me here – much less a cop – I'll be royally screwed. "Why do you need lawyers? I thought you were fine."

"I am, but I want to see my kids and that fucking bitch Shannon won't let me."

My panic deflates and I can breathe again. "Oh," I exhale.

"Well gentlemen, my lady Bella is a precious customer so I won't make her wait. I shall be seeing you all very soon." He does an odd tipping of his head and grins, chuckling. The lawyers climb back into a sleek black Mercedes and drive off. Royce ushers me inside, his hands a little too close to my ass for it to be okay but I'd never call him out on it. Royce is the most influential dealer on the West Coast. If I make an enemy of him, I make an enemy of them all.

He hollers at his guys at the back, "Bella's here!" The more familiar ones come out to greet me. A stranger gets my regular order ready. It takes them ten minutes because it's a pretty hefty order.

Royce packages it in a parcel so that it won't look suspicious if I get photographed carrying it into my house. When I leave, he kisses me on the cheek and yells, "You'll come back to see me soon now, my Bella, won't you?"

I kiss his cheek in return through my car door and then shut it. "Of course I will," I murmur, then I back out of his dusty lot and drive to the outskirts of the rough area, where my apartment block is.  
There are paparazzi waiting outside, lurking in their vans. They spring from their seats at the opportunity to see me and are crowding my truck within minutes. I carry my parcel and my clothes and all the rest of the bits and bobs I need to take in. They love that I have clothes with me, it makes it so easy for them to make it look like something it's not.

"Bella, did you spend the night with a boyfriend?"

"Where have you been, Bella?"

"What's in the parcel, Bella? Bella!"

"Have you contacted that man from Vegas, Bella?"

"Bella! Bella! Is it true that you're sleeping with Emmett?"

I scoff and elbow my way into my apartment. Once I reach my crappy apartment, I toss the dirty clothes in the corner, drop the parcel on the kitchen counter and mix up a lethal cocktail of crushed pills, a few choice powders and a big slosh of tequila.

It tastes absolutely disgusting, but it feels amazing.

And by amazing, I mean numb, which is the best it ever gets for me.

* * *

"Get up."

I groan, rolling onto the empty, cold side of my bed.

"Get up!"

Again, I shuffle away when the voice screeches at me. A scratchy, angry voice that I should know better than to ignore. My older sister.

"Do you have a death wish? Get up, Bella! Get the fuck up now!"

The blanket is snatched from me. I peek from my sleepy eyes and crane my head to glare at Rosalie. I'm caught off guard by her watery eyes, but I try not to show it.

Instead, I grab a hoodie from the floor near my bed and pull it over my tank top. Somewhat satisfied that I'm not going to fall back asleep, Rose throws the blanket back down at the bottom of my bed.

"What's happened?" I ask, my voice still thick and slow from sleep. I blink at her, wiping my eyes and yawning. It's still dark outside – or as dark as a LA ever is.

"Just get dressed," she whispers, her voice cracking and her cheeks dampening. She turns on her heel and flees my tiny little bedroom before I can stop her.

Obediently, I strip and change into some relatively clean clothes – some jeans, a grey t-shirt and a leather jacket. I drag my hair up into a ponytail, disappear to brush my teeth and then find Rose sobbing softly on my couch.

It's scary, because my sister never cries.

"Rose?" I call softly, walking over, wet toothbrush in one hand and some white sneakers in the other. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, sniffling, and tries to wave me away. I toss my toothbrush down onto the coffee table, drop my shoes on the floor and settle down next to her on the couch.

"Rosie?" I whisper. "You can tell me. I'll be okay."

Suddenly, her eyes flash to mine and she spits out, "Am I supposed to believe that? Really? After what I've just found in your fucking kitchen?"

Oh.

Shit.

I duck my head and look away, reaching a hand up to awkwardly cup the back of my neck. "Is that what this is about?" I ask, gesturing vaguely to my eyes, not daring to look up at hers.

"I flushed it," she snaps, wiping her nose and under her eyes. "All of it."

All of my three hundred dollar order. Great. I'll be revisiting Royce sooner than I anticipated, then. The idea sets my teeth on edge, because while Royce is a nice enough guy, I can never be comfortable around him. He's too unpredictable.

"But no," she sighs, rubbing her eyes again. A sob chokes her and she hunches over, collapsing into herself. "It's something else," she says quietly.

"What is it then?" I ask, growing impatient out of nowhere. I want to know what's made the ice queen melt – it's hardly unreasonable.

"Oh Bella," she groans, reaching her hand for mine. I lace my fingers with her's and squeeze.

"Whatever it is, we'll be okay," I say firmly, because we will. I'll make sure of it. My sister has always looked after me, and I owe it to her to do the same.

Her eyes close, then flash open again. They're the same icy blue they've always been, so light that they tilt on the verge of looking silver. Right now, there are sharp red lines pencilled around them.

"I'm pregnant."

My jaw drops. I don't know if it's shock or horror, or an even mix of both. But whatever it is, I don't like it. This isn't bad. It's terrible.

"Shit."

She rambles, "It's Emmett's. I haven't told him, and I've destroyed the two tests I did. I need to get out of here before Uncle Aro gets back from Italy. I can't lie to him Bella, you know I can't. And Emmett, I don't know how I'll tell him. He couldn't even keep a goldfish alive!"

The first thing out of my mouth, which is stupid considering all of the things I know about Rose, is, "Are you going to keep it?"

Somehow, she doesn't get mad even though I know how she feels about this subject. Mainly because she was born, despite our parents being encouraged to abort her. "Of course I am, Bells."

"Okay," I draw out the word, grasping for something to say. "What do you want to do?"

She chuckles humourlessly, flopping back against the couch. "I came here because I need you to go and buy me one of the expensive tests – the ones that tell you how far along you are."

"Okay." I'm scatter-brained at best. I don't know what the time is, where the nearest pharmacy is, or what to tell her to make her stop crying. "I'll be really quick," I mutter, running back to my bedroom to grab my purse and my phone. Then I snatch up my keys, take one last glance at her sniffling on my couch, and jog out of the door.

* * *

Turns out the nearest legitimate pharmacy is not that near at all. Even at 4 in the morning, the LA streets are far from empty. It takes me twenty minutes of driving around and Googling on my phone to arrive there. Then when I get there, it's shut, so I wind up spending another half an hour running around looking for a 24 hour one.

Eventually, I find an open pharmacy that doesn't look too sketchy and then I curse myself for not bringing a hood or a hat or some sunglasses.

I park in the back of the lot, slip from my car, shrug my shoulders up and duck my head. Walking, I sling my purse over my shoulders and drop my keys into it. I rush into the pharmacy.

I don't hang around to look sheepish, instead grabbing a basket and then loading it full of gauze, antiseptic, pain killers and whatever else I can find that I think might come in handy at some point. When my basket is almost brimming, I force myself into the pregnancy aisle and pretend to be checking the sanitary products, searching the tests out of the corner of my eye.

I don't know why I'm being funny about it, it just feels like I'm going to be caught out any minute now and every tabloid everywhere will be reporting a pregnancy that isn't mine. Even though I can't see anybody else around, it's just one of those paranoias.

Blindly, I grab the top shelf, most expensive tests, pick up five and then bury them underneath all of the other things in the basket.

At the check out is an elderly lady that hardly glances at me as she's scanning the items. That is, until the tests are in her hands. Then she squints at me.

"You know who the daddy is?" she asks, holding it up.

I glare at her, bring my hand up to cover the bottom half of my face and spit out, "It's not for me."

The corner of her wrinkly lip twitches up. "That's what they all say, doll. Full of actors, this city is, at least you're half decent."

I glare harder, pay for the two bags worth of shopping, and then leave.

The sun is peeking out now, just light enough that I don't have to squint to see the curb just before I trip over it.

I screech, "Shit!" as I'm falling and manage to stick my hands out in front of me just before I slap the ground with a loud thud. For a few seconds, I lay in the plank sort of position, then eventually shove myself back up so that I'm crouching and review the damage done to my stinging palms.

A flash of embarrassment heats up my cheeks and I mutter a thread of curses as I push myself up to stand.

And then I hear a voice that just makes everything so so much worse.

"Bella? Is that you, Isabella?"

Squeezing my eyes shut, swallowing what's left of my dignity and stamping all over whatever bitter feelings I have towards him, I turn to face Carlisle Cullen. He's smiling gently at me, looking more friendly than I deserve. I was less than kind to him last time we bumped into each other – which was less than bump and more of a tackle. His eyes are the same nursery blue and they crinkle at the sides, his hair is a pale, pale blonde. He's still handsome, which is no real surprise.

"Oh hi, Carlisle!" I choke the words out of my mouth, sputtering.

"It is you!" he says, his smile growing to a grin. "I thought I recognise you and your clumsy feet," he chuckles, throwing his arms out and pulling me into a hug. I stumble slightly into his chest, hurrying to hug him back so that I'm not rude.

Over his shoulder, I see where some of my stuff has scattered too, and seeze up at the sight of the tests. He pulls back, so I step away. My smile falters, but I force myself not to try and reach to hide them.

"What are you doing here so late?" he asks, furrowing his brow.

"Oh, I just needed to pick up some things." I shrug lamely. "How about you?"

He nods. "Well, Esme and I are out here visiting the boys. She's not feeling so well after the plane, so I'm just picking up a few things."

The boys. Their boys. Who, I once called my boys. But not anymore.

"Let me help you," he says, crouching down, grabbing one of the spilled bags and beginning to pack my things in. To his credit, he doesn't say anything, but he has to see them. The long blue boxes.

I drop to a crouch beside him and stuff them into a bag.

"Is everything okay, Bella?" he asks gently, not stopping packing.

"Yes," I answer, sharper than I intended. "Sorry."

"Are you sure? I know those tests are good, but I can get a blood sample checked for you if you want-"

"No, no! It's not for me," I interrupt, sputtering, blushing harder than I ever knew I could. "It's for a friend."

Unconvinced, he eyes me for a moment before nodding and returning to packing my things into his bag. Once we've gathered everything, he insists on walking me to my car, then insists on helping me put my bags in the boot. He hugs me goodbye, mumbling, "You know, we've missed you Bells. Next time you're in Forks, feel free to drop in. Esme'll be so upset she missed you here."

I bob my head and don't make any promises. I just hug him back, then get into my car and drive.

And by drive, I mean, like, really fucking fast.

* * *

 **A/N: Chapter 3 is here! This is by far the longest chapter I've done for this story so far. Would you like them longer and less frequent or shorter and more consistent updates? Let me know.**

 **So, we've met Royce who I don't plan on making a very important character, but I haven't fully decided. What are your opinions? More Royce or no? Rosalie is pregnant and we have our first Cullen appearance. Let me know what your thoughts are. For any of those wondering if there will be a HEA for B &E, know that there will, but we're going to have to work to get there. Anyone wondering what the 3 Ps are - they are Pills, Prengnancy and Pharmacies. :P**

 **Next chapter, we'll get some insight into Bella's work and maybe see a glimpse of Edward?**

 **Leave me your thoughts, whatever they may be. I need to know or we'll never get anywhere with this.**

 **\- Laylz :)**


	5. Chapter 4: Clean

**Lies & Secrets**

 **Chapter 4:**

 **Clean**

 **Disclaimer: The plot is mine. Twilight is not.**

 **Warning: This story contains and explores mature themes.**

* * *

 **BPOV**

The next few days pass so painfully slow I'm constantly two seconds away from crying. Partly because, day in, day out, I am under the supervision of either Alice, Rose, or Angela – who, until recently, was my assistant, but she has now become my babysitter.

Rose says that this is how it's going to be until she can ensure I'm not going to run back and pick up a second parcel like the one she found the other night. Which brings me to the real reason the days are so long and why I'm under constant scrutiny – I spend them completely, stone cold sober.

It's Hell.

The only reprieve is that, every day, at noon, my neighbour Jake drops in to say hi when he's on his way to work. I can smell the weed wreaking from his uniform when he does. I'm not sure if he's noticed I'm on house arrest, or if he's just bored, but it's nice talking to him. He's funny and kind and makes the day a little less terrible.

Even though it's still mostly terrible.

Rose takes the pregnancy tests I bought, but she says she doesn't want to talk about them. And then, without telling me and without telling Uncle Aro, hands in her notice for her modelling job at Uncle Aro's agency.

He'll be pissed. She knows it. It's why she's been bunking down in my place – because Uncle Aro will be more pissed with me, because he always is, so he'll forget about her. A part of me is mad, but I don't have the energy to keep it up. There's no energy for anything these days. Alice says this is typical withdrawal, but her words mash in my ears.

Whatever it is, whatever they call this treachery, it's torture.

* * *

A week later, I'm back on my feet. Kinda.

At all moments when I'm awake, I'm caffeinated to the high heavens; there's a constant pain somewhere in my body that shifts around and my head feels like it's split in two if I don't take the painkillers that Rose sets out for me in the morning.

I feel like shit. Always. But I'm sober. Hooray. Right?

Wrong.

In person, the only people I see are the people that come to see me because I've yet to make it out of the door. Rose spends every night here, but leaves during the day to help out at a day-care centre downtown. She says it might lead to a real, steady job. She says it's great. But I know that as soon as Uncle Aro gets wind of it, it'll go to pieces. However, I keep that to myself and leave her to her optimism.

Angela and Alice are around when she's gone, just talking or watching TV or on their phones. But they're here, which is the only thing keeping me from getting into my car and gunning it to Royce's.

Renee calls every day, because Rose snitched on me and told her. Not all of it, but enough to make her angry. My mother threatens to get on a plane and fly out to force me into a rehab centre, but really, I know she won't. She's too busy entertaining her latest husband, Phil. And besides, she gave up on me after the second admission to the 'spa' in Phoenix.

Both Emmett and Jasper try to come and see me, but Alice and Rose turn them away. It's not that I don't want to see them, it's just that the last time we spoke, it ended up in an argument and my head cannot take any raised voices around here.

Excluding Jasper and Emmett, the band – Laurent, Jane, and Jess – don't even know about any of it. They text me all the time, and I sometimes text back, but I never tell them. I just don't have the same trust and love for them that I used to. I know they love me, but I also know that if they had had their way, I'd have been kicked from the band – my band – a long time ago. They don't do it to be mean, they just do it to be fair.

I can't fault them. I used to pull my weight, and some. I used to write the songs, help Jasper write the music. I would put in more hours than I could afford to spend. I slaved over every word in every line. Then I'd sing it, and repeat it until I hit every note in every beat.

Then I just didn't anymore. I couldn't write and I sang, but it was mediocre at best.

The only reason Uncle Aro, owner of our record label Volturi Records, didn't kick me from the band is because I'm the female face of it and I'm lead vocalist. There was no way of disposing of me without making a scene. Since I'm one scandal off from being a write-off, and kicking me from it would bury him in bad publicity, he didn't.

Instead, he kept me on as a prop and during the four-month tour we did last year, I showed up, I mimed my words and that was enough to keep my head above water.

But now, even though Rose and Renee tell me I'm getting better, it feels like I'm drowning.

* * *

Today marks two weeks sober. It's also my third day without vomiting or having a panic attack. Today, I'm leaving my apartment for the first time since my pharmacy run. It's a simple trip out, to a restaurant downtown that does good burgers with the band. I pump myself full of sugar, positive thoughts and bullshit excuses before I leave and spend the entire drive there rehearsing my lies as to why I've been locked away.

The nearest parking space is a few blocks away and costs me more money than it's worth. I push my sunglasses onto my face and take a last glance of my outfit – a denim skirt, a grey t-shirt and some white sneakers. Smoothing my hair down – which I've straightened – I step from my car, grab my black leather handbag and start walking in the direction I need to go.

The paparazzi are already waiting outside of the restaurant and they spot me a mile off. Before I know it, they're swarming me and yelling questions that make my headache ten times worse, but I curl my hands into fists and ignore them. Then, when I get to the restaurant door, they can't follow me.

The woman seating guests glances up at me and her face drains of colour. "Oh, um, you must be with the Twilight band, so let me, um, show you to your seats."

"Thank-you," I say quietly, already knowing it was Jess that booked the table. She always uses the band name, because it guarantees we'll get a good table and that the papz will be there to get a pretty picture of her.

I follow the woman, who has a bouncy, black ponytail, up the stairs to a balcony above the garden below. Our table is on the left. It's a pretty private area, tucked away and a bit secluded. It's clear that this is a selective section. Only a few others mill around, mainly in pairs or eating alone. I twist my head to find our table, and see all of their faces cracking into grins.

"Bellsy!" Emmett booms, in a way that he can't help. He jumps up and bounds over, past the woman and sweeps me up into his big, beefy arms. "Bellsy, Bellsy," he says, tutting, "you're too light, my dear." He's grinning, so I know he's only kidding.

I roll my eyes and peck his forehead, which is his cue to let me down. The woman turns to me and smiles awkwardly. "Well, um, I'll come back when you're all ready to order." She scurries off in a hurry and I feel bad, because I didn't ease her nervousness, but I get over it quickly.

The next to greet me is Jasper, whose hug is similar to Emmett's in strength but more muted as far as theatrics go.

When he lets me go, Emmett swings an arm over my shoulder and guides me over to the table. I kiss Laurent, Jess and Jane's cheeks before sitting between Jasper and Emmett. They both look the same. Jasper and Emmett are both tanned as can be, with Jasper just a bit more on the darker side. His sandy blonde waves tickle his ears, his blue eyes are dark and bright. When he smirks, he speaks with an emphasis on his Southern twang.

Emmett's brown hair is cropped short. He's boyish in his face – simple brown eyes, bushy brows, deep dimples when he grins. He makes Jasper's lanky frame look skinny, because he spends more time at the gym than he does at his house.

They're both dressed very similarly, courtesy of Alice taking charge of both of their wardrobes. Both in long denim shorts, and Emmett's wearing a black t-shirt, while Jasper's is green.

The rest of them look the same, too. Laurent's smooth, dark skin is a shade darker from the sun. His dreadlocks have grown a bit, I think, and his eyes are still the odd rusty shade of brown. He's wearing a sweater and basketball shorts.

Jess has had her hair dyed blonder, a new set of eyelash extensions, some more lip fillers and she looks happy. She's wearing a yellow, latex mini skirt with a matching crop top. She's lost weight again.

Jane is dressed in some jeans and a tank top. Her hair is its usual almost white platinum blonde. Her face is bony and narrow. She looks cute, with her wide blue eyes and button nose.

They all smile at me, seemingly waiting for me to say something.

"Hi guys," I greet quietly, following the script I practiced in my car. It seems wrong, though, saying it to their smiling faces. I still do it anyway, because the only Plan B I have is to leave. "Sorry I haven't been around a lot lately, I came down with something, but I'm on the up now."

Emmett and Jasper stay quiet, because they know the truth, but Jess fills the quiet with ease. "Oh Bella, call me next time and I'll have my mom make up her noodle soup – it's so good! And there's literally no calories in it either, you have to try it. Delicious, I swear it!"

I smile at her, shifting in my seat and nodding my head. "Thanks Jess." I pause, take a breath and then follow up with. "So, what have you guys been up to lately?"

Luckily, it works and everyone adds their own stories and tales. It feels weird, because we used to experience things with each other, like a team, but now all we do is show and tell whenever we get together outside of work. We order our food, which arrives ridiculously quick, and is delivered by flustered waiters whose hands shake as they're passing out the dishes.

The conversation flows easily, and I'm as much a part of it as anyone else, but it just feels weird because I know I'm not being honest with people that I never used to lie to. Jasper and Emmett know the truth, and they'll ask me about it when we're alone, but it's still weird. It feels wrong.

Jess is halfway into describing the guy she's currently seeing when she freezes in her seat and her eyes go wide, staring behind my head. I don't look, because then it's obvious. Plus, I know she'll explain it anyway.

"Oh my God," she whispers. "It's the Cullens."

I freeze, and five pair of eyes flash to me, waiting for my reaction. The Cullens. The name is like a bomb to all of the calm I'd manage to muster, and suddenly I'm the same anxious, jittery mess I've been for the past two weeks.

"Oh shit," she realises, her eyes meeting mine across the table. "Even his parents are here."

Quietly, under his breathe, Emmett whispers, "Do you want to leave?"

I shake my head, because the last thing I want to do is draw their attention over to us. "No, guys, let's finish eating. It's fine."

Emmett takes it as a cue to boost the atmosphere and chuckles, "Thank God, because I fucking love the burgers here." He then starts telling everyone randomly about this time that he and his older brother stole his mother's car to go to a party, and has the whole group enthralled in his tale within seconds.

I smile at him; he squeezes my knee under the table. It's support, a promise to protect me the way he always has. My heart swells for him.

The rest of them keep up the conversation, and I chime in occasionally, but I'm mostly concentrating on not drawing attention, resisting the urge to look at them over my shoulder and telling myself over and over again that I'm okay, it's okay, everyone's going to be okay.

Even though it really doesn't feel that way.

Not too long later, everyone is finished eating. Hardly ten minutes after that, we've all finished our drinks and the conversation starts fading out. It's time to go. Despite their protests, I pay the bill. They try to resist, but they're all too scared they'll upset me if they push too hard right now. Like I'm an egg half-cracked, or something.

Laurent stands first, then helps Jane and Jess up because he's a perfect gentlemen. I'm on my feet, a little unsteady but upright, in half a second. I shrug my shoulders back, grab my sunglasses from where I've placed them on the table and slip them back onto my face. I run a hand through my hair, pushing it from my face, and smooth down my skirt, tugging the hem of it and suddenly wishing it was longer.

Casually, Emmett slings his arm over my shoulders. He grabs my purse for me, and jokingly wears it himself. I roll my eyes, crack a small smile, which must be confirmation enough for him that I'm not going to break down because he leads the way towards the exit.

But, we hardly get two steps.

"Oh my goodness!" It's Esme's voice, a little higher-pitched and faster than it was two years ago, but the same smooth, silky voice. "Bella! Emmett!"

Rudely, I don't stop walking, but Emmett halts immediately. He's never been able to disrespect Mr and Mrs C – as he calls them. I asked him once, if I thought James was the way he is because of his parents, and Emmett was so offended it took weeks for him to get over it.

We turn – or Emmett spins me, however reluctant I am, causing me to trip over my own feet. I steady myself by fisting a hand in his t-shirt.

So much for a simple outing.

My nerves sky-rocket. Worse than they've been in weeks. And all I want – all I need – is that peacemaker that Royce can sell me for fifty dollars a baggie. It's oval, yellow like the sun and it smells like fish, but it makes me feel so okay. So calm. But I haven't got them. Not with me, and not at my apartment. I'm so sober it's painful.

Inside my chest, my heart stampedes, beating so hard it hurts, so fast I'm scared it'll burst. My thoughts run a million miles a minute. I'm strung tighter than a live wire and I can't relax, can't calm down.

Behind us, the band idles. They talk amongst themselves, and I know they're trying not to stare but I can feel them watching. Then, the familiar burn of one particular gaze spreads over my chest and I can barely breathe.

I look up to watch Esme hurrying over. I refuse to look behind her, instead focusing solely on her smiling, slightly sunburnt face. She's dressed in a long navy summer dress and looks the picture of elegance, as always. Her caramel hair flows, her delicate features glow pink.

"Oh Bella, dear," she says, wrapping me in a hug when she reaches us. I remember her being at least five inches shorter than me, but she's wearing kitten heels that make her less so. She pulls back to smile, placing her hands on my shoulders. "Carlisle told me he saw you the other night and I was hoping I might get to see you, too, and here we are! Just in time, too, we're leaving tomorrow."

I smile back at her, even though it's forced and tight and I want to get away from here. "Just in time," I repeat quietly.

She doesn't hear me. "And you, Emmett," she says, moving her attention to the muscle man beside me. Her grin is so wide it must hurt. She wraps her arms around Emmett and I see her shut her eyes.

"It's been far too long since I've seen you, young man."

My lips crack into a small smile. A movement behind Esme catches my eye and I see Carlisle standing. I avert my eyes as soon as I look, not daring to glance at their sons. Carlisle hugs us both, murmuring polite greetings, then tucks Esme under his arm, where she grins happily.

"Oh, it's so wonderful to see you both. I'm glad you've stayed friends." I know I'm not imagining the touch of melancholy in her voice when she says it. I know she's a little sad, because me and Emmett stayed friends with each other, but not with her children.

Emmett grins and nudges me away from him with his elbow. "Couldn't get rid of her. She's like a lost stray." They laugh, and I strain even harder to keep the smile on my face.

It's a joke, I remind myself. A joke. Emmett makes them all of the time. And I laugh, most of the time. But not now, because that hits too close to home to be funny.

"Why don't you come and sit with us for a little while?" Esme asks. I know I'm not imagining the way she brightens with excitement, either. She hurries to follow it up with, "Your friends are welcome to sit with us, too, if you'd like. I'm sure we can ask for a bigger table."

She glances at Carlisle, who smiles kindly at her. The love between them is so obvious, so sweet that it makes my teeth ache. I thought I had love like that, at one point in time. I've realised now, that it's a Cullen trick, though.

Emmett nods his head before I can answer and says, "Yeah, of course."

He turns to me, his eyes wide and imploring. He wants me to do it. In his mind, sitting with them and playing nice would be sticking it to James, would be me proving I'm stronger now. But I can't do that. I am stronger, but this has never been about strength. It's been about fear, and as strong as I am now, I'm still scared.

I shake my head minutely, and turn back to Esme and Carlisle with a frown. "I'm so sorry, but my parking ticket is going to run out. I can't get clamped again."

I don't know if it's a lie – it could be true – but I know that it's one of the few excuses that they'll accept.

They smile sadly at me – Esme looks disappointed, Carlisle looks more sceptical than anything else. I hate it, that I feel my gut roll with guilt that I'm upsetting them, so I quickly hug them goodbye and hightail it out of there without a second thought. The band follows behind me, but they don't catch up. I manage to sneak out without getting caught by the paparazzi, and rush towards my car because if I get there quick enough, I can drive to Royce's really fast, pick up a small stash of pick-me-ups and make it back to my apartment within a reasonable time, and nobody will think anything of it.

But if I don't get there fast enough, then I'll take too long and whoever's waiting for me back at the apartment will know I stopped off somewhere, and will search my car. So I hurry to my car, jog across the lot to get to it and then reach to my side to grab the keys from my purse.

Except, I forgot my purse. It's still on Emmett's shoulder.

I drag a hand through my hair, stare at my locked vehicle and mutter a defeated, "Oh fuck."

Too scared to go back and get it, I decide I'll wait it out until Emmett comes. His Jeep is parked on the other side of the lot, thankfully. Hopefully, he won't be too long. But even if he is, I'd rather sit here unproductively than approach a table full of people I've been avoiding – rather successfully until recently – for years.

I shuffle back to sit on my bonnet, propping my feet on the bumper, leaning my elbows on my knees. I push the glasses up into my hair, and then I drop my head into my hands.

I should've stayed in my apartment, where it's safe.

I don't think anything of the footsteps when I hear them. Mutely, I decide that if I lift my head, they might recognise me, which might cause a commotion, and I definitely don't want to have to spend my wait for Emmett surrounded by paparazzi. So I don't lift my head, I keep it in my hands.

Until someone stops not very far away and clears their throat. I know who it is before I even open my eyes, because the familiar burn spreads across my body, and my heartbeat stutters then speeds, bouncing around my ribcage. I look up to confirm my suspicions.

He's wearing a sweatshirt that looks too big for him, a baseball cap which covers the majority of his coppery hair, and sunglasses which hide the upper half of his face. But I'd know him anywhere.

Edward.

"You forgot this," he says, his voice quiet and perfectly polite. I'd almost forgotten how he sounded – velvety, smooth, deep.

I shiver, and I try to convince myself I'm a little cold, but we're in the nineties today. He holds out my purse. I reach and take it.

I find my voice and force out a shaky, "Thanks."

He doesn't leave right away, which is maybe a good sign. I can't be sure. I'm never ever sure with him. Never have been.

All I know right now is that, he's not awkward, but he's definitely guarded and maybe a bit nervous. He shoves both his hands into the pockets of his jeans and his shoulders cave in slightly. It's the last thing I expect from him, because in all of the years I knew him, he was not once anything but completely sure of himself. No matter what, Edward always carried a quiet – or sometimes loud – confidence. But not now.

Randomly, out of the blue, he asks, "Are you happy, Bella?" I can't tell if there is an actual urgency to his voice, or if I'm wishful thinking. But his voice definitely cracks just a bit when he says my name.

I steady my eyes on his shoes – plain, black sneakers. Not as battered as the ones he used to wear; not as polished and pristine as his brother's undoubtedly are. My eyes well and I blink quickly, tilting my head up and refusing to sniffle.

"I can't talk anymore," I say quietly, shakily. Does he know that it's just him I can't talk to? All I know is that I need to leave. My heart feels like it's racing towards another fall, and I can't let it smash again.

I don't look at him, just grab the keys from my bag, unlock the car and slip into the passenger seat silently.

"Bella." I can't tell if it's anger or desperation in his voice, and I really can't handle either, so I don't turn around and slide into my seat, stabbing the keys in and starting the engine. "Bella!"

Definitely desperation. But I don't fall for it – he's an actor, it could be anything. I slam my door shut and peel out of the parking lot, watching him grow smaller and smaller in my rear view mirror, until he eventually disappears.

I wish, so badly, that he could disappear from my thoughts, too.

* * *

 **A/N: Here we are. Before I get into it, I want everyone to know that I'm aware this is not a very accurate portrayal of sobering up. I definitely know that I could've been better on it, but I also didn't want to drag it on too long because it's not a super vital part of the story.**

 **So, we've got a sober Bella for now, we can better understand her fame and, most importantly, we've met the majority of the Cullens by now. Specifically, we've met Edward :) What are your thoughts on him?**

 **Also, thank-you all for your reviews. I'm sorry I've been so lousy with getting back to everyone. I'll be trying harder as we go on, but time is tight around here and I've been focusing more on writing ahead than on replying, but yeah. My bad.**

 **Leave me your thoughts, and I'll try to get back to you but even if I don't, know that I appreciate and read every single one. Scouts honour.**

 **\- Laylz**


	6. Chapter 5: Flat

**Lies & Secrets**

 **Chapter 5**

 **Disclaimer: The plot is mine. Twilight is not.**

 **Warning: This story contains mature themes.**

* * *

 **BPOV**

I don't stop at Royce's, even though I detour with that intention. One glance at the cluster of pimped out cars in his lot and I know it's not a crowd I want to mingle with. I drive straight back to my apartment, trying to remember if I actually tucked a bottle of vodka under one of the creaky floorboards all those months ago, or if that was something I meant to do but never got around to.

When I arrive at my door, I don't get a chance to check, either, because Rose is already there, watching a cooking show on TV. She's got her feet propped up on the coffee table – the wonky, ugly coffee table – and is eating a bag of Hot Cheetos that rest in her lap. It's so unlike her that I double glance it.

I decide that I've had enough. If she's going to force me to face up to addiction, I'm going to shove her pregnancy in her face until she can't avoid it. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, kick off my sneakers, dump my bag in my room, and then walk back in, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV.

"Hey!" she snaps, glaring at me. "I was watching that."

I pin her with a look I picked up from our mother, Renee. The type of look she gave us when she needed us to know that she wasn't going to let us off the hook. Rose doesn't shrink, but she definitely sits up straighter. "What's going on?"

She crosses her arms over her chest. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the fact you found out you were pregnant two weeks ago, I went and bought you tests that Carlisle Cullen saw me with-" When her eyes widen, I realise I never mentioned that to her. "- then you quit your job, don't tell me anything about any of that, and now you're working in a daycare centre? That's what I'm talking about!" I glare at her. She glares back, but I know I'm going to win this, because if I don't, she can take her shit and leave.

"It's none of your business."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Rose?" I yell, grabbing my hair and tugging it at the roots. "You better be."

She glares harder, hoping I'll back down. If I was seventeen again, and she was still the perfect big sister in my eyes, I might've. But I've long since outgrown that illusion. "No, I'm not. I don't have to explain myself to you."

"You're sleeping in my bed, living in my apartment and you're treating me like am infant! You can explain yourself, or you can get the fuck out."

She takes a moment to process, and then raises a brow at me. Clearly, she thinks I'm joking. That it's one of my empty threats. She's wrong.

"Fine," I say, shrugging. I stalk into my room, grab an armful of her clothes.

"Hey!" she yells, standing and following me towards the front door of my apartment. "Leave my stuff alone."

"You don't want to explain to me? Don't. But don't expect me to answer to you if you won't even talk to me." I open the door, dump her shit on the floor, and then brush past her on my way to get more.

"You fucking bitch!" she yells. I don't listen, grabbing another collection of things she's moved in, and doing the same. She stands guard over the growing pile of her things, glaring at me and calling names.

It doesn't faze me. Not today. Not anymore.

"Fuck you!" she yells, once I've dumped the last of her things. She glares at me. "Are you happy now?" she hisses. "Do you feel better?"

I shake my head at her. I know we'll get there eventually, but our family has a tendency to need some tough love to nudge them onto the right track. "Call me when you're ready to talk. Until then, don't talk to me. And, if I were you, I'd give Emmett a call. Secrets have a funny way of getting out around here, and I don't think yours will be any exception."

Then, I slam the door in her gaping face.

Then, I listen to her screech profanities at me through the thin walls for thirty minutes until whoever she's called has arrived to pick her up.

Then, I listen to her and some random friend of hers collecting her things and hauling them downstairs.

Finally, there is silence. And I go hunting for that bottle of vodka which, shocker, has been emptied as well. All I can do is sit there and stare at the empty bottle, dry as the Sahara desert.

I quickly realise that I really don't like silence. Not at all.

* * *

The next day, I hit the gym early. Then I grab a pen, and a mini leather notepad and I drive to a secluded beach an hour and a half out of the city. I pull a blanket from the trunk of my car and carry it to the dry sand, tucking myself away on the edge where people have to really look to see me.

I lay out the blanket, open the notepad, uncap my pen and I tell myself now is the time to write a song. Or to, at least, write something. At which point, any speck of creativity left in me evaporates into thin air and all I can think about is how I'm not able to think of anything.

It's been this way for years, and I'm so sick and tired of it. Writing used to be something I needed – my first real addiction. It came so easily that my pen flew across the paper, my mind was buzzing with the endless possibilities. Any story is a story when you put a beat behind it.

No ideas come. I watch the sand play the ocean, I watch the night push the day away and I feel the air chill around me. But nothing comes – no ideas, no inspiration.

Eventually, I stand from where I've been sat, head back to my car, pack my shit and drive back to the city. I grow angrier and angrier with every mile. Too angry to be alone. Then, just because I'm not paying the correct amount of attention, I veer just slightly off the road. A loud pop follows. I shriek, straighten up, but immediately know that my front tire on the left is gone. It lags, and the car leans and drags towards it.

So, because it's the right thing to do, I pull over. Then I check the trunk for my spare – which suddenly, I remember, I used when I blew the wheel during some stupid run with Royce and had been meaning to replace it. So, I grab my phone from the glovebox and realise there's no signal out here.

And it's pitch black, just to really make things extra bad.

I'm sitting in my car, trying to ring someone despite having no bars, when a blue convertible pulls in behind me. It's pretty empty on the road – about four cars every minute at best. I curl up in my seat, and lock the doors, curling into myself on my seat. I wonder, briefly, if I should hide in the footwell but realise it's too late.

So, I sit and hold tight and anticipate a scary encounter that, hopefully, won't end too badly. When there's a knock at my window, I turn and shake my head mutely at them. The man looks strung out and scary. He gestures at me to roll down the window. My manners, too deeply ingrained in me to refuse completely, make me roll down the window just a tad – just a sliver. It's enough that the overwhelming stench of alcoholic fills my nostrils and I roll it right back up immediately.

"Hey, doll face!" he calls, and he repeats himself a few times – each time with a name more derogatory than the last – before I can't take it anymore, and hurriedly switch on the engine and stamp on the accelerator..

I know Jasper is better with cars, but Emmett's house is closer, so I eventually slow so that I can very carefully, very slowly, drive there. I crawl through the dusty roads to his ostentatious, slightly ridiculous mansion that he bought last year, in a gated 'neighbourhood'. The term neighbourhood is used loosely, as Emmett has never met any of them and all of the houses are so big and so far apart that you'd never run the risk of bumping into them, either.

I'm on an approved list, so all I do is show the men manning the gates my license and they let me in, which is lucky because I'm an unhealthy mixture of tired, hungry, cold and frustrated. Dealing with strangers might be dangerous for me right now.

Two minutes of driving – more like rolling – down the one long winding road, I stab the code into Emmett's gates and drive through, veering off his drive only once and killing what I hope is only a few of his flowers. I park sloppily on his drive, and step out of his car, jogging towards his door.

I don't even stop to wonder who owns the cluster of cars in his driveway.

My frustration and exhaustion envelope me, stinging like venom behind my eyes, and I knock hard on the door. Emmett's face morphs into confusion and something else I don't understand when he opens the door. "Bella? What are you doing here? Where have you been?"

Before I know it, I'm choked up and I open my mouth to tell him – about the flat, about the tire and the weird guy that wanted to 'help' me, but then I start crying before any of that comes out and I mewl. "I was supposed to write today. And I tried, but nothing came out. Nothing, Emmett!" My pitch raises, too shrill and panicked for it to be my voice.

He frowns at me, then pulls me inside of his house and shuts the door behind me. "Rose called me. She said you kicked her out."

I snort. "She was hardly living with me. She had her own apartment."

He furrows his brows at me. "She didn't tell you that Aro cancelled the lease on her apartment?"

My eyes widen and I wipe the few tears underneath them. "No," I sniffle, feeling even worse. I feel used, in an odd way, and pissed that she was claiming to supervise me for my benefit when really, she just had nowhere else to go. It just makes everything so much worse.

"Oh," he says awkwardly, reaching his hand around to cup the back of his neck. I know how Emmett feels about people dropping in on him unexpectedly. He's not a fan of it. I should've thought of that before, but I didn't. Maybe I hoped that by now, he'd be over that little obstacle. Obviously, he's not.

"Why'd you kick her out?" he asks.

I swallow hard, shaking my head. "It doesn't matter." It's not my secret to share.

He doesn't buy it, but doesn't push either. "Do you need to crash here?" he says it uncomfortably and two beats of silence reveal why – I can hear people talking in the other room. He has company. Which might explain why he hasn't invited me in past the hallway.

"Who's here?" I ask, maybe a little stung – just because Emmett's supposed to want to help me when I'm sad. He's supposed to hug me. That's what he always does.

"Bella," he sighs. "I don't think you want to be here right now. They're all drinking and I just don't think you're ready for that-"

"Oh, fuck you," I snap, cutting him off and shoving his chest. He doesn't budge, not that I was expecting him to. He's a strong wall of muscle and flesh. I've only been to the gym twice in the past month, and it's showing.

Really, I shouldn't be mad. Emmett's just taking Rose's side over mine, and that's how it's always happened. That's how it's always been.

"Hey, I'm trying to help you."

"No you're not, you won't even tell me whose here."

"Because I don't want you to get upset!"

"Why would I be upset?"

"Because you always get upset over this shit, Bella." It stings, just because he's throwing shit back in her face without even realising he's doing it.

"Okay," I mumble quietly, gathering what's left of my energy and resolve and gluing it together. "Well, I'll go then. See you around, Emmett."

I don't know where my Emmett's gone, but this isn't him. I head to the door, open it and am stepping out when he calls, "No, Bella, wait! I didn't mean it like that."

I hear a voice – Rosalie's voice, to make it even worse – shriek in the other room, "Bella's here?" Which sets off a murmuring, which I don't want to listen to, so I shut the door behind me and I walk to my car.

Again, I shouldn't be surprised that he's chosen her over me, but I still sure as Hell am hurt.

I almost forget about my flat until I see it – the wheel is completely deflated now, and driving with that is beyond my capabilities. But I'm too prideful to go back inside, and I'm so tired, that I have to lean against it as I'm fumbling for my keys, patting down my pockets and cursing. My energy is gone, but I refuse to stay where I'm not welcome. So when Emmett's front door open and I hear his heavy footsteps jogging down the steps, I snap, "Go back inside, Emmett."

The throat that clears behind me isn't Emmett, though. It's Edward Cullen.

Again.

My body burns.

I startle, turn around and manage to accidentally fling my keys aside in the ordeal. I lean to grab them from the floor, but he's got them in his hand and is offering them back to me within a heartbeat.

"Thanks," I say quietly, fighting a yawn.

He looks more like him right now – I take a second to drink him in. Edward's hair is a coppery blaze, always messy and in disarray. His face is all angles, the most coveted bone structure. His eyes are a quiet green, like Esme's. He's built with broad shoulders and leans towards the more muscular side. He's in a long-sleeved sweater which fits a little tighter today.

"Are you alright?" his voice is grittier than yesterday, and he's more sure of himself – I can tell that much.

Averting my eyes, I shrug and nod my head at the same time. A contradiction, of sorts, but true enough. Self-consciously, I reach up and wipe both of my eyes just in case any lingering evidence of tears make me look like a liar.

He eyes me with more than a touch of suspicion. "Are you sure?" I fumble with my keys and press the button to unlock my car. I wave off his concerns, and for a minute, while my back is turned, I can pretend he's anyone.

"I'm fine."

I'm about to open my car door, when he says sharply, "You've got a flat."

I roll my eyes and turn around, maybe a little too tired to be able to interact properly with him. "I know. I'll sort it. It's fine."

He sounds almost offended, snapping, "You can't drive with that! Wait, did you drive with that?" It sounds like the worst thing ever when he says it.

"What was I supposed to do?" I grumble, reaching up and rubbing my eyes again. "I got a flat in the middle of nowhere, I don't have a spare and I don't have any signal and there's some-" I cut myself off, glancing at him, noticing his nostrils are flared and his eyes are wide and choosing to omit the part about the weird man.

"Some what?" he asks, not nastily but almost, stepping over towards the wheel and crouching down, inspecting it. A part of me in the back of my mind buzzes to life, remembering when I used to sit in the garage at his house and watch him tinker with the different cars in there. I stomp all over the memory before it can wake up the heartache.

I can't stomach any more heartache.

"Nothing. I'm just tired," I sigh.

"The wheel is fucked," he mutters. "When was the last time you got this car checked out?"

I try to recall it, but I can't. "I'm not sure."

I almost giggle at the absurdity that I'm talking, too tired to panic, without enough energy to overthink, with Edward.

"Bella," he huffs, the word ringing with unspoken lectures and lessons. He stands, brushes his hands on his black jeans and glances up at me. I look away, to his sneakers, which are white today. "Are you staying?"

Mutely, I shake my head.

"I'll drive you home," he says, like it's already decided. In his mind, it probably is.

I shake my head. "No," I say, "I'll call a cab. It'll be fine."

"Bella, you're not getting a cab. I'm driving you home. It's on my way and I was leaving anyway." The tone of his voice – telling, not talking – is all too familiar. I glare up at him.

"A cab is-"

"You're not taking a cab. It's on my way, so don't sweat it."

He grabs my arm and starts towing me down the drive. He must've parked on the street. My skin tingles where he touches it, and if I weren't mesmerised by that, wondering if he can feel it as well, I'd object further.

As it is, when we reach a big, black SUV and he opens a door and gestures for me to get in, I'm too tired to fight him, so I don't. All I want is my bed, and a good dream. And maybe some of Royce's stock that I'll have to wait until tomorrow to pick up.

Edward is in the driver's side and we're leaving through the gates of the neighbourhood by the time I open my eyes. "Wait," I yawn, covering my mouth, "what about my car?"

"I'll sort it," he dismisses.

I lean forward and press a few random buttons on the console. A soft, classical song floats through the air. Debussy. I smile lazily, my cheeks heating and my chest ballooning with emotion. Claire De Lune.

He doesn't say anything, or show any inclination that he remembers, but he must. People can't forget that type of stuff, can they?

I shut my eyes to enjoy it, but when I open them again, we're on the outskirts of the city and I'm being gently shaken awake again by Edward, who smiles softly at me. "Hey sleepy girl, where's your apartment?"

"Oh, um, it's… it's…" He chuckles when I fail to remember, but a slight crease of worry appears in his forehead. I shake my head, blink a few times and refocus myself. Then I give him the address. He doesn't need directions, because he visited me and Jasper a few times when we were sharing the place all those years ago. The frown that appears on his face when he realises it's the same apartment is deep and bitter.

Maybe it's because he thinks I'm less guarded due to my exhaustion, or maybe it's because he knows this place must be full of memories for me, but he asks again. "Are you happy, Bella?"

I sigh and murmur, "Are you happy, Edward?"

I don't really expect an answer, so I'm surprised as Hell when he mumbles. "No. Not really." I'm not sure what to say, so I choose to say nothing at all. He pulls into the side outside of my building, and is opening my door before I've managed to unbuckle my belt. I smile in thanks, hop down and out and blink up at him.

"Thanks for driving me home," I say, not sure why it comes out as a whisper but it does.

He whispers, too, a frown still stuck on his face. "Let me walk you up." I try to tell him he doesn't have to, but he ignores me and ushers me into the building. We walk up to the third floor, where my apartment is. My hands are so tired they shake, so it's difficult getting the key in the door but I manage.

I don't invite Edward inside, because I know he won't like it. I know he'll think the place is dingy and cramped and question why I haven't gotten myself a nice, big, pretty place like I always said I wanted. Like he always told me that one day, we'd share a place like that together.

Instead, I smile up at him again. "Thanks."

He shrugs and cracks a small, familiar, crooked smile. It warms me in a way I haven't been warmed in so long – the kind that blooms in my chest and can't help but spread. But just as quickly as it comes, it's gone. He dips his head, whispers a quiet, "I'll see you around, Bella." Then ghosts down the stairs, out of the building. The one thing I notice as he goes is that his hands are balled into fists.

Another thing I notice as I peer out of the window to watch his car, is that when he drives home, it's back in the direction we just came from. I frown, suddenly suspicious. One quick Google search on my phone is all I need to do to find out that he shares practically the same address as Emmett, except for a few numbers. They're neighbours.

* * *

 **A/N: So, what are your thoughts on this chapter? I'm not all that sure how much I like it, but I figured this was better than nothing so here we are.**

 **Leave me your thoughts.**

 **\- Laylz**


	7. Chapter 6: Memory Lane

**Lies & Secrets**

 **Chapter 6:**

 **Memory Lane**

 **Disclaimer: The plot is mine. Twilight is not.**

 **Warning: This story contains mature themes.**

* * *

 **BPOV**

The next day, I've set my mind. Two weeks of sobriety has been misery enough, and I don't want to do it anymore. I don't enjoy it; I'm not speaking to Rose and it's not helping me write, either. There is no point.

So, I walk downstairs, my car keys twirling around my finger, with every atom of my being buzzing at the idea of speeding down to Royce's and diving into a bottle of those perfect little pills that are so, so good to me. And then, I reach the garage and my plans pop in my head. Last night resurfaces in my brain – beach, flat tire, Emmett, Edward.

Even so, my car is parked in it's usual spot. I take my time, surveying it carefully. The red looks brighter than it has in years – and I can't tell if it's been thoroughly washed or if it's had a new paint job. Every single tire looks new. I unlock it and pop the trunk, where I find a new spare tucked in the place my bad one was.

Then, I open the door, to see the interior which is almost impossible to see through my tinted windows. And I exhale sharply, in horror or surprise – I'm not sure. There are several bouquets of roses – some red bouquets, some white, and some a pretty, light pink – stacked on the backseats neatly.

There's a stack of chocolates – my favourites – in a bag on the passenger seat. And a small note tapped to the steering wheel.

I pluck it from the tape, read my name written in impressive calligraphy on the back. I turn it in my palm, glancing over the simple words and numbers quickly.

Next time you need a ride.

\- Edward

His phone number follows and I'm not sure if I'm overwhelmed in a great, wonderful way, or if I'm pissed. Whatever I am, when I think of taking my car to Royce's now, it makes my gut twist in guilt.

So I do the next best thing – I lock up my car, sling my handbag over my shoulder, and I walk to the nearest off-license, which is only a couple blocks away. I buy a bottle of expensive tequila and a cheap bottle of vodka, and some orange juice. On my walk home, I glance at the card again, wearily programming the number into my phone. I don't text him, because I can't bring myself to do that.

All I do is rush back to my apartment, grab a glass, fill it to the top with drink and sit back on my couch, sipping it through a straw. My mind gets away from me, floating back to a time before this. Back to a time that feels so long ago, but really, it wasn't that long.

The first time I met Emmett McCarty I was sixteen, during my summer in Forks. We were at First Beach and the day was one of the sparse sunny ones that everyone had to take advantage of. In my state, the memory envelopes me like a hug. Evidence that there was a better time than this.

* * *

 _"This is the most boring town ever," Rose huffed, flopping backwards onto her red beach towel, it matched her pretty retro bikini. She'd bought it in Port Angeles when Charlie drove us up there for the day last week. It had relatively modest, high-waisted bottoms and a halter-style top. She looks a little bit like Marilyn Monroe with it, except her blonde hair is long and she's not wearing red lipstick._

 _I giggle at her and wiggle from my back onto my stomach. I'm wearing a white bikini with black on the seams. It's pretty, but maybe a little small. And I could never pull it off like Rose pulls off hers, but that's not really the bikini's fault._

 _"Thank God I don't have to come back here," she sighs, sliping her cat-eye sunglasses onto her face._

 _I frown. Next year, I'll be here alone for the three months of summer. She's eighteen now, and while she's giving Forks one last year, she's not willing to give it more than that. I don't mind that she's growing up before me, or that she doesn't like it here. But since I don't know anyone here besides Charlie, Billy Black and Jake – vaguely – it's bound to get pretty lonely for me._

 _Oh well. It's not like I haven't done lonely before. I'm quite good at it, actually._

 _A loud scream, followed by a big splash startles the majority of the beach. I lean up onto my elbows and twist to look behind me; Rose sits up and tips her sunglasses down her nose, glancing around._

 _"Ugh. Jake and his friends are jumping off of the cliffs," she mutters._

 _I follow her line of sight and, sure enough, they are. The La Push boys are diving in from the tallest cliff, in front of everyone. I roll my eyes and push up onto my knees._

 _"Come on," I say, grabbing my baseball cap from my head and tossing it onto the floor next to my towel. "Let's go for a swim."_

 _She glares at me, an eyebrow raised. "Swim? No thank-you. You're on your own there." She pushes her sunglasses higher on her face to cover her eyes and lays back to prove her point._

 _I hesitate, but it's not like Rose would change her plans just because I didn't want to participate in them, so I refuse to change my plans for her. I turn on my heel and walk hurriedly down to the beach, one of my arms wrapped around my torso and the other fiddling with my hair._

 _When I get to the water, it's only kids in there, really. I walk in, surprised that it's still so cold despite the summer sunshine._

 _"Okay," I hiss out, between my teeth, taking a few brave steps out. Once I'm out far enough, I dunk under to get it over with. Then I just swim slowly, kind of just lazing around. I don't venture too far out, never where I can't stand, but I go out to my neck where it's nice and quiet and none of the kids are around._

 _Then, as I'm swimming back, something lands right beside me and I flinch away from it, accidentally inhaling water and sputtering._

 _"Oh shit!"_

 _I push my hair from my eyes and look at the object that landed next to me – one oversized beach ball. Then I look up, to see a brick wall of muscle and brawn jogging trough the water towards me. I didn't even know people could have shoulders as broad as his. Every stride he takes makes a mini tsunami, until he eventually reaches his ball and picks it up He grins at me, his cheeks dimpling, looking rather sheepish. He towers over me easily, and while the water reaches my waist, it hangs around his hipbones._

 _"Sorry," he says quietly, still smiling. He squints a little down at me. "Are you from around here? I don't recognise you."_

 _I push a small smile onto my face and shake my head. "No, I'm from Phoenix?"_

 _He chuckles. "That would explain the tan. Are you moving here? Not many people choose to vacation here." He picks up the ball and pops it under his arm, despite it's a huge ass ball – yoga ball size._

 _"Um, no." He tilts his head at me, a brow raised. "We're in town visiting my dad."_

 _"Oh, whose we?"_

 _"My older sister."_

 _"Where's she?"_

 _I nod towards the beach. "She doesn't like swimming."_

 _He glances towards the beach, then snaps his head back to me. "You're here with Blondie?"_

 _I frown at him. "Have you met her?"_

 _He chuckles and reaches his free hand to cup the back of his neck. "Ugh, yeah, something like that."_

 _I don't ask. I didn't even know Rose had gone into town without me, and it feels like a small betrayal that she did. I tell her everything; I thought she did the same with me._

 _"Oh," is all I murmur._

 _"How long are you both staying?" he asks, a new level of enthusiasm and excitement in his voice now._

 _I shrug, "We're here for summer."_

 _He grins, full blown, and his dimples deepen. "You have to come to my friend's party on Friday!"_

 _I shrug non-comitally. "Sounds cool."_

 _He smirks at me. "That doesn't sound very promising." I know that he's inviting me for the sake of me inviting Rose._

 _I shrug again. "We just don't know anyone around, really, so I don't want to intrude."_

 _He scoffs. "You two will be the most interesting thing about this party, trust me. Besides, it's a great way to meet people."_

 _"I don't know where it is."_

 _He chuckles. "Who's your dad? I can pick you up on the way."_

 _"Charlie Swan."_

 _His face drains slightly and he seems to shuffle back just a bit. "Oh, well, yeah, I know where he lives. I'll be there at eight on Friday."_

 _I nod my head, not really entirely trusting that he's serious._

 _"Right," he says, fumbling with his words now. Maybe Chief of Police isn't the most welcoming guy around. "Well, I need to get back to my family, but I'll be there for you both on Friday." His confidence returns with a vengange and he even ruffles my hair. "Oh, I'm Emmett by the way. Emmett McCarty."_

 _I make wide eyes at him, but can't help smiling back. He's infectious. "I'm Bella."_

 _"And your sister?" I roll my eyes at him, which makes him a little sheepish again, but he doesn't take it back._

 _"Rosalie. And, if you want to stay alive, never call her Blondie to her face."_

 _He chuckles, and nods his head. "See you on Friday, Bella," he calls, backing away. I dip back into the water without replying, swimming away, back to the shore. Suddenly, I have plans to share with Rosalie, which is a first. My life has always been relatively lacklustre during the past sixteen years, and I spend more time listening to Rose's life than I ever do experiencing my own._

 _But now, I have a ride to a party with a handsome guy that's probably on the football team – maybe captain – and even though it's probably just to get into my sister's pants, it's something._

* * *

 **A/N: Okay, so this is a very important update.**

 **I've been considering and evaluating things lately. I've decided (though I'm still flexible on the idea) that it might be for the best to offer this story up for adoption because I don't think I have the time or the energy to give to it anymore. I'm open to the option of co-writing, or just having someone help me with it. But I've got a lot of other things going on so I'm going to have to compromise in some way.**

 **If you're interested in adopting this story, taking on any sort of responsibility in it, or co-writing it or something of that sort with me, don't hesitate to PM me. I promise to be friendly. :)**

 **Anyway, I apologise if anyone feels let down by this. I just can't manage the story completely on my own anymore, it's proving too difficult.**

 **Let me know what your thoughts are on the chapter and the update. It'll help an awful lot. Thanks**

 **\- Laylz.**


	8. Chapter 7: Home

**Lies & Secrets**

 **Warning: This story contains mature themes.**

 **Disclaimer: The plot is mine. Twilight is not.**

 **Chapter 5**

 **Home**

* * *

At one point in time, I was a happy person.

I woke up early and went to bed late to milk every minute of every day. I could enjoy things, completely on my own, completely unintoxicated.

But things are different now, and I'm not that person – not the silly, lovesick child that I was before.

Maybe it's a good thing, too.

I know better now. I'm not so easily fooled by sweet words and pretty faces, not so easily allured by the ideas that are always too good to be true.

Or maybe this is normal. Maybe this is what growing up is all about.

Whatever the case, I'm not a happy person now. I'm a wiser, smarter, richer and more popular girl, but I'm not happy.

So, in a way, everything means nothing because the one thing I truly want – happiness – is the one thing I don't have.

It is cruel, so very mean and cruel, this joke that life has played on me.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

My life is what many would call a mess. But, I prefer the term hazy, because that's all this – a drunken haze. I'll burn out eventually, when the liquor stops giving me a buzz again and I have to move on to something stronger, something that makes my heart race and my face twitch.

Until then, it's me, an assortment of spirits and a rotating group of friends that frequent all the clubs we can cram into one night.

"Bella?"

Shuffling, footsteps.

"Bella? Bella, are you listening to me? Can you hear me?"

"Sue?" I groan, turning over on my couch to see her, towering up over me with a creased face and wide eyes. She's wearing a pretty flowy dress that's some pale baby blue colour that makes her look so innocent, so young.

But what the Hell would Sue Clearwater be doing in my California apartment?

"You've really done a number on yourself, sweetheart," she says, lowering herself to crouch beside me and running a gentle hand through my hair.

There's a small crowd in my apartment – and I blink my bleary eyes to see them all, so that I might understand what's going on, but Rose uses her fingers to gently coax me to look back at her.

"What are you doing here?"

"I can't understand a word you're saying, Bella. You're slurring."

"I'm just waking up," I garble, but even to my own ears it's a mush of sounds and syllables but no distinguishable words. "Why are you here?"

But my words don't register, or she's not listening, because what she does is perch on the end of my riff-raff coffee table and hand me a bottle of cold water that she pulls from her handbag, which I drain in seconds.

"Nobody wanted to have to do it this way, Bella."

"Do what?" I ask, trying my best to articulate the words properly, clearly and shuffling to try to sit up. She puts a hand on my shoulder, steadying me. I look at the faces behind her and I want to be able to see them, but they're too far out of focus.

"Nothing else has worked, Bella. I'm told, at least, that they've tried every other attempt, and judging by the state of this place, they've all amounted to nothing."

"Whose they? What are you talking about?"

"Bella, we want you to get better."

"What is going on?" I say, a little frantic now, bordering on yelling. I shrug away from her touch and push up to my unsteady feet, where I tip forward and have to steady myself on the arm of the couch.

"Bella," Sue says, standing and reaching for me but I shrug away.

"What's happening?"

My eyes blur with tears as it begins to dawn on me – what they're here to do.

"Don't panic, sweetie, it's going to be alright. We're going to take you somewhere where you'll get better. They'll look after you-"

"No!" I yell, backing up. "No! No, no, no way!"

"Bella," she scolds gently. "There's no need for that. This is for your good."

"No," I gasp, quickly losing control of my breathing. "No, don't make me. You can't make me. Please. Please."

My vision fades at the edges and I back up until my back hits the wall, and then I slide down to my knees and try my best to take a deep breath, but I wind up choking on a sob.

When did I even start to cry?

"This is why I said to bring the sedatives! I knew she'd be like this. Nobody listened to me."

"Oh hush, that's no help."

"Well, look at her!"

"Rosalie! Stop that now. Have some compassion."

"Bella? You're going to be okay, sweetie."

"She's going to pass out."

And, I do.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

Rehab is familiar, but this one's different. It's more lavish and not as clinical as the others I've been to. The nurses don't glare or carry tazers and batons, there aren't bars on the windows and the therapists don't call us weak.

It's still horrible; I still hate it, just not as much.

Every morning, I meet with a woman that asks me how I feel, I'm given a 'healthy and nutritious' breakfast that tastes of nothing and doesn't satisfy me for a second.

Then, I go on a group hike, with my buddy – who is really just there to ask me if I'm doing okay and to make sure I don't run away. She's a nice enough girl, but she doesn't stop talking. Then, I eat lunch, which tastes just as bad as breakfast.

After that, I sit in a room with other women who tell me their name, their story and why they want to get better. I don't say anything in that room, even though the counsellor asks me to. I just don't want to.

The only good part of the day comes after that, when it's my free time. Or, not technically free time, because supposedly, I can do whenever I want, whenever I want so long as it's in the grounds, supervise and safe. But the only time they don't pester me into doing what they want me to be doing is the evening, so it's the only chance I get to be by myself.

For the first few days, I spend my free time in the library. But then I grow bored of not being able to understand Shakespeare and of the not-so-subtle stares of some of the other women in there.

So, then I take to going to the gym which, similarly, loses its appeal a few days in. I get sweaty, shower, then sit around until it's time for bed, where I lay in the darkness and will the dark thoughts away.

Eventually, I take to sitting at the grand piano and repeatedly playing Mary Had A Little Lamb until one of the nearby patients yells at me to stop. It's something musical, though, which is better than nothing.

Night after night, I am reminded there is a phone for me to use and I'm encouraged to lift the ban I've put on visitors, but I do neither. I am my own island, a war-torn thing that will never grow good again, but at least I'm far enough from everywhere else that I won't pollute them.

Besides, I've still yet to forgive them for putting me in here. If there's one thing I've never forgotten how to do, it's holding a grudge.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

On my twentieth therapy session, on my twentieth day, I tune in for a heartbeat.

"Bella, why won't you talk to me?" Dr Griffin, my therapist, asks.

As I have been doing for the last three weeks, I remain deathly silent. It's not out of stubbornness or spite. I just because I don't have anything to say. There's nothing I could tell her that I haven't told tens of other therapists before, and it didn't help then so it's not going to help now.

A few moments later she asks, "Bella, is there anyone at all that you'd be happy to speak to? Have you made any friends here? Do you want any visitors? Was there a therapist from your previous attempts that you made a connection with?"

A mute shake of my head is all I offer, and then I look back out of the window.

"Does playing the piano help at all? I've been told that you seem a little happier when you're playing it. I've also been told that music was a therapy for you, once upon a time."

Nothing. I have nothing to say and nothing to give, so all I do is sit tight.

She sighs, dropping her head into her hands and shaking it. "I can't help you if you won't speak with me, Bella. I don't know what you're waiting for. You're leaving tomorrow, anyway. You really don't have anything to lose."

Silence.

She sighs, huffs in irritation, then asks, "Unfortunately, we haven't made the progress we were hoping to make in these three weeks, so you're still very much in a vulnerable position. From what I've been told, it seems that your current living area is not a very supportive environment for recovery. I can speak to one of your relations about it if you're unsure, but do you have any stable place to go?"

I nod my head this time, which seems to be a step in the right direction because the ferocity of her glare lessens just a notch.

"Where will you go after rehab?"

For the first time, I open my mouth to answer her. "Home. I'm going home."

And I'm determined to make it true.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

My release is scheduled for noon, so I'm sat – finally back in some of my own clothes and not the scratchy sweats they make us wear – in some high waist dark wash blue jeans, a red tank top, a black denim jacket and my white sneakers, twiddling my thumbs in the waiting room at eleven fifty five.

Dr Griffin makes a sudden appearance and chooses to sit beside me.

"Rehab didn't suit you much, did it?" she asks easily, not meaning it a nasty or unkind way. She's rather matter of fact, it seems.

"Sobriety doesn't either."

"Well, that I disagree with," she says. "You look a Hell of a lot better than you did when you first walked in."

"I don't feel it."

All she does is raise a dubious eyebrow and murmur, "I don't believe that for a second. You might not feel miles better yet, but I'd bet money you don't feel any worse."

"I'd take you on, but I don't want to rob you blind," I say. She huffs a short lived chuckle and a small smirk creeps its way onto my lips.

"I'm sure we could've gotten along a lot better than we did if we'd had this conversation in the beginning," she says, a little wistfully. It could be a great advertisement for her ability as a doctor – to have fixed the shamed Hollywood starlet Bella Swan. It didn't happen, but I leave her to imagine it, for a little while.

"Do you happen to know who's picking me up?" I ask.

"No," she says. "They didn't specify, but they guaranteed someone would be here for you."

I nod my head, gnawing on my lip and wracking my brain for who it might be.

"Well, Bella, I wish you the best of luck with your recovery," she says, rising from her seat and offering me a slight smile. "For the kindest reasons, I hope I never have to see you again."

"Thank-you," I say. "And I hope the same."

She laughs. "I bet you do."

With that, she's gone, heading back into the facility.

At twelve, nobody arrives.

At ten past twelve, the receptionist asks me if I want to ring anybody to check if everything's okay, and I tell her no, thank-you.

At half past, she says it's okay if I want to go and wait outside, probably because my foot tapping against the laminate floor must get annoying after a while, so I take the hint and head outside.

Outside, I have no concept of time except for the sun and the visitors that pass me on their way inside.

For a while, I stand right outside of the doors, leaning against the building and waiting. But then my legs get tired and I go and find a bench, where I sit cross-legged and wait.

A few times, I contemplate going inside, but there's something about it that just seems so embarrassing. Being stood up after being dumped in rehab just seems like the lowest of the lows, really.

Eventually, as the sun is setting, I resolve that it has got to be done walk back inside, where the receptionist is horrified to discover I've been waiting this whole time.

"Oh my goodness, you should've come in sooner," she says. "I would've offered you the phone."

I shrug my shoulders and ask, "Is it alright if I use it now?"

"Yes, of course," she says, picking up a mobile handset and handing it to me.

I take it and hesitate for a moment – dithering between dialling for Rose or Alice. In the end, though, I don't call either of them. I call for a cab.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

At my apartment, my things are in boxes and the boxes are stacked by the door. I'm confused by this, but it makes my life easier because I don't have to pack for myself.

I make quick work of leaving. I call for a U-haul to collect my things, and they come instantly, incentivised by some extra cash, and help them pack my boxes into the van.

I try to book a plane ticket to Seattle, but they're sold out until next week, so I book a private plane instead – which feels all kinds of fancy and snobby and weird – but I justify it to myself.

By the time the sun rises, I'm being photographed drinking coffee in Seattle's airport.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

I am a wuss.

That's why I sit outside my home, panicking in my rental car for half an hour before I work up the courage to approach the front door. And even then, it takes me ten minutes to find the nerve to knock.

"Coming!"

The voice is gruff, and low, and my father's. My stomach drops to my feet and I shrink back from the door, into the shadows of the evening, wrapping my arms around my torso. The lock clicks, the door is pulled back and I'm exposed.

Charlie's stood in the threshold in his work uniform, minus a belt and with the few top buttons undone. The only thing different about him from four years ago is that there are some grey spots to his moustache and the wrinkles on his face – around his forehead and his eyes – are deeper.

"Isabella?" he asks, his voice the highest pitch I've ever heard it. "Is that you?"

"Uh," I fumble, grasping for the right thing to say. "Well, uh-"

"Bells!" he exclaims and I start in surprise, but it all fades away when he comes near and envelopes me in the warmest hug I've had in years. "I can't believe you're here. When did you get here? Does Rosalie know? I'm so glad you're home, Bells."

I don't dare look, because Charlie's never been a man for emotions or fuss, but a few droplets of wetness land in my hair and since it's not raining out, I'm shocked to realise he's crying.

"I've missed you so much, Bells. I can't believe you're back."

After a while, he pulls me inside and I put the kettle on. It's funny, because as soon as I'm back inside the house, it feels like I never left at all and we resume our regular relationship.

"Where's Sue?" I ask.

Sue Clearwater married my father when I was fifteen, but she'd been a bit like a summer mother to me since I was twelve – not that I'd ever tell my real mother that. Her children stayed in La Push, where they were raised, because they were both old enough to get their own places, but she moved in here.

I'm very aware that she was in LA and was a part of the mob that admitted me, but I don't mention it because I don't know how much Charlie knows and I'm not about to break it to him if I don't have to. Rehab is not a proud thing for anyone.

Charlie's still staring at me like I'm not real, or like I'll disappear if he blinks and so he's not paying proper attention. I wave my hand and repeat my question.

"Oh," he says, "she's gone on a weekend away to Alaska with Esme. They've both been quite worried about something recently. They went to unwind."

"What are they worried about?" I ask.

Sue and Esme were always close, which makes me wonder how much Sue has divulged to Esme. Which brings on a whole other onslaught of questions regarding who from the Cullen family would know – because Esme might tell Carlisle, who might tell his sons, who could tell anyone. In short, it's giving me a headache. Secrets always do.

"I don't know. She said she'd tell me when she gets back."

"Okay."

"I really can't believe you're here," he says, seating himself on a chair at the mismatched kitchen table.

I pour two cups of decaf tea, leaving his how he likes it – no milk, no sugar – and adding a bit of both to mine.

"I've missed home."

"Home?" he asks, his eyes glassy.

"Yeah, Dad. This never stopped being home."

I turn to him, to see that he's still crying and before he can get embarrassed, I put the tea on the table next to him, kiss his head and bid him goodnight, blaming the fatigue on my travelling.

It'd make Charlie all sorts of mortified if he knew I sat there on the top step as he keeled over and cried.

 **X**

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **We've been here before, unfortunately.**

 **My apologies for such a long wait. I have almost one chapter already written so that should be up shortly. It's winter, I'll be indoors more, hopefully writing a bit more frequently.**

 **Let me know if you are still interested in my stories. I know that I, at least, still enjoy writing them. :)**

 **\- Laylz**


	9. Chapter 8: Growing Up

**Lies & Secrets**

 **Chapter 8**

 **Growing Up**

 **Disclaimer: Twilight is not mine but this story's plot is.**

 **Warning: This story contains mature themes.**

 **BPOV**

* * *

News travels and by the time I'm in bed that night, pictures of me at the airport are everywhere and my phone is beeping incessantly with texts, phone calls I don't answer and voicemails. They all seem more confused than anything.

I turn my phone off and tuck it in the bottom drawer of my bedside table. Then I change into some old pyjamas that are a little too big for me and slip under the covers.

My room smells like comfort. There's no other way to describe it.

My pillow, however, that still smells like Edward Cullen's cologne and I realise that Charlie really hasn't touched this room. Like, not even to wash the sheets. Gross.

But, as I fall asleep to the smell of an aftershave I've never forgotten, I'm almost glad.

It's the best night sleep I've had in as long as I can remember.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

The next day, Charlie takes off work to take me for a walk in the forest, which I've been dying to do. He says it's not safe to go alone, which he used to tell Rose and I every time we asked, but I still found time to wander off by myself.

He's a man of few words, much to my relief. His questions are to the point and few and far between.

He asks, "Why didn't you come home, Bells?"

To which I reply, "I don't know, Dad. Sorry."

He asks, "You're finished with that James boy for good, aren't you?"

To which I reply, "Yes, Dad."

He asks, "Did he hurt you?"

To which I reply, "It doesn't matter anymore, Dad."

I can tell he doesn't like that one, because he sucks his teeth and shakes his head, but he doesn't pry and he doesn't press me for information. It's a nice change from the pestering of everyone in LA.

He asks, "How long are you staying?"

I reply, "I don't know yet, Dad."

He asks, "Is it true? All of those things they said in the papers about you being on drugs?"

That question sticks me, so I hold my breath and shrug my shoulders.

His face gets sad and faraway for a while before he says, "I taught you better than that, Bells. I'm disappointed in you."

And, like always, that hurts more than anger.

"Sorry," I mumble.

He asks, "Are you sober now, at least?"

To which I can say, truthfully, "Yes."

He nods his head and stops asking questions after that and we don't talk much for the rest of the day. Normally, I would enjoy quiet company. But the looks Charlie keeps throwing me make me wish I could break the silence with a decent explanation – makes me wish I could explain that I was only doing it to make myself feel better – but I know it would only make it worse, so I stay quiet and absorb his silent judgement.

As we're eating dinner – defrosted chicken that I cooked – he speaks again. "Will you come down to La Push with me tomorrow? They've missed you, too."

I hesitate, unsure of how I'll explain myself, but I don't want to disappoint him again.

I nod my head. "Yes, of course."

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

The next day, Charlie goes to work and while he's gone I set to work at rehabilitating my room. I dust and scrub and do anything to keep my hands busy, which involves changing my sheets. I throw them in for the wash, but I keep back the pillowcase and tuck it beneath my pillow.

It's sad and creepy, but I can't help myself.

Once my tidying is done, not that there was much to do as it's been kept well, I'm left with nothing to entertain myself with, so I retrieve my phone from the drawer and switch it on.

 **Why didn't you tell me you were going home? I could've come with you or something – Em**

 **Way to leave us high and dry for even longer Bella. People are starting to ask questions – Jazz**

 **You have an appearance next week, Bella! This is why you need to talk to me before you do things! How could you be so inconsiderate? I'm going to quit if you keep this up – Alice**

 **Oh, and as we're on the topic, Angela has quit. She was going to say it to you in person, but then you got admitted, so she was going to ring you but you weren't taking phone calls. Anyway, she's quit. Just so you're aware, so you need a new assistant – Alice**

 **Are you in Seattle? – Jess**

 **Why are you in Seattle? We have a meeting tomorrow – Laurent**

 **Are you moving out? The landlord says your place is empty – Jake**

 **What the actual fuck have you done? – R**

After that, I start deleting them all without reading them until my phone is empty. I send the same text to all of them.

 **I'll be back as soon as I'm feeling better. I'm really sorry – Bella.**

I tell myself this will be the last time I'll have to apologise to everyone I care for.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

La Push is the same.

Billy still doesn't like me much – he hasn't since I started hanging out with the 'townies' as he called them. His daughter Rachel is nice, but disinterested.

Seth and Leah Clearwater, my step-siblings, are friendly and nice enough, but we've never been very close. I do notice the awkwardness between them and Charlie's less disappeared, though, which is surely a good sign.

Once I've said hello to the elders, Seth suggests I head next door, to Sam and Emily's house where the people more my age are.

I nod my head and sheepishly run over, knocking the door.

It's Paul who opens it. "Oh, hey Bella," he says, smiling and pulling me in for a hug. "We were wondering when you'd show up again," he chuckles easily, like I've been gone for three hours and not three years. He guides me into the living room where the rest of them are.

The Quilette boys, who are so close they're like a pack, welcome me back with ease. I'm passed around from Paul to Quil, from Quil to Embry, from Embry to Brady and from Brady to Jared.

I spend longer greeting Jared and Sam Uley, two brothers who were my best friends for many summers. I meet Sam's wife, who I've never heard of, but Emily is kind and welcoming.

Once I've been welcomed in, I sit on the loveseat next to Jared, who slings his arm around the back, and they all resume whatever conversation they must have been having before we arrived. It's about cars and from what I can gather, they all run a garage together, like they used to dream of.

It's weird to think of how they're lives have gone exactly to plan, while man has been a complete and utter car crash of a couple highs sprinkled between the low, low, lows.

Eventually, I force myself to tune back into the conversation before my musings get too depressing.

"What's the name of that band we used to listen to?" Sam asks, glancing between Jared and I.

I'm stumped, because I listened to a million different bands. Jared, however, knows it instantly, "Oh, yeah I know, The Dawn Breakers, right?"

"Yeah, that's them" Sam nods his head and Jared leans back into the couch. "They're performing in Seattle in a couple weeks. At Centurylink Field, I think."

The name rings a bell. I've performed there once myself, but even on the first tour where my behaviour was pristine, I ducked out of performing in Seattle to avoid the embarrassment of all the Forks people coming up to watch. Emmett loved performing there for that reason, but I didn't have the same outlook as him on the matter.

"Shit, we should get tickets. I love them," Paul says.

"Nah," Sam replies, shaking his head and taking a swig from the Coke can in his hand, "they were through the roof prices. Some $150 each or something – and those were the cheapest ones. Plus, I think they're already sold out, anyway."

Deflated, Paul slumps back in the armchair. "It's bullshit."

"I remember them," I say, feeling too embarrassed to mention that I know them now.

"I bet you do," Jared chuckles, "you were completely obsessed."

I roll my eyes and my cheeks flush pink. "You're one to talk," I retort weakly. "Do you guys still want to go?"

"Why?" Quill asks. "Do you think you could swing tickets?"

"Yeah, you're a Hollywood hotshot now, Bells. I bet you could."

Ducking my head, I avoid the six pairs of expectant eyes. "Well, I mean I could try." I don't mention that I used to meet up with Liam, the lead singer, and that we'd write songs. It seems snobbish, and this guys aren't the type to be impressed by snobbery.

"Well, look at you," Sam says, smirking. "You're not our little old Bella anymore."

He says it like a compliment, but the truth in his statement is the saddest truth of my life.

I still smile at him anyway.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

The next day is Sunday.

So, when Charlie goes to Church, I go with him. Everyone stares and whispers and some of them even lift their phones to snap pictures. I keep my head down and flatten out the old clothes of mine that I'm wearing because my things have yet to arrive – it's a black pencil skirt I wore to a job interview once and a baggy, red cable knit sweatshirt that's cropped. I wear some of the red kitten heels – one of two pairs my teenage self had here and only because Rosalie left them behind.

When the service is done, I keep my head down and follow Charlie's que. When he gets up, I do too, but then there's a girl that went to school with me whose name I don't remember asking if she can get a picture and if I'm staying and if I'm actually dating Jasper.

I stand, a little startled and wide eyed, completely unsure of what to say.

"Sorry," I mumble, ducking my head and following Charlie – who didn't stop to listen. She calls after me, but I pretend I don't hear.

After all the years of hating it, right now I'm so, so glad that my father is the Chief of Police because when I grab hold of his arm and walk in his shadow, people don't approach me. There's something in my face and in Charlie's stance that just screams 'Stay Away'. For now, it's enough to stave off any mob, but it's only a matter of time before I have to speak to people.

I've had my name slandered in all sorts of tabloid headlines and faced some of the boldest and harshest interviewers there are, but they've got nothing on the small town gossip mill in Forks.

Outside, we head straight to Charlie's cruiser. I glance over my shoulder to see a couple clusters of people – some holding up phones to film, others just stood whispering and talking about me.

"Ignore them. They're just looking for something to entertain themselves," Charlie says, like I haven't been dealing with this for the past few years.

Even so, his words help just a little bit. I turn back and get into the passenger seat.

We drive to the supermarket, where we pick up some groceries – he says Sue's asked him to.

"Have you told her that I'm here?"

"No, I thought you could explain it yourself," he says, a little sharply.

Chastised, I silently grab a cart and start pushing it inside the store. We pick out a few essentials before he speaks again.

"Rose rang me last night."

I stiffen, grabbing the low fat milk I know Sue drinks and popping it in the cart. "What did she want to talk about?"

"She wanted to know how you were and when you got here."

"And what did you tell her?"

"I told her what I know – that you arrived on Friday night and you seem to be doing okay."

I get the distinct feeling he's working up to asking a question, and I know Rose too well to think she'd ring Charlie to check up on my wellbeing.

"What else did she say?"

"She asked about Sue, Seth and Leah and me." Silently, I nod my head and walk a few steps forward, picking up two type of yoghurts and deliberating between the two – toffee or vanilla. It's unlike Charlie to beat around the bush and it's making me nervous. "Then she asked if you'd completed your stint at rehab."

"Did she?" I ask, trying for nonchalance and dumping the toffee in the cart, moving on quickly to juices.

He doesn't say anything, just stands back and stares. I grab a carton of orange juice and one of apple and then return them to the cart, shrinking under his glare.

"Bella," he says seriously. "That's something I needed to know about. Why wouldn't I be involved?"

Spitefully, I snap, "Because you weren't a part of my life for three fucking years."I regret the words right after I've said them and press a hand to my mouth. "Okay, that came out wrong. I didn't mean that-"

"My involvement in your life, Bella, or lack thereof was down your choice. Not mine," he says gravely, and then he pushes the cart right past me. "And you might be an adult now, but iff you cuss at me again, I'll make sure you regret it."

"Sorry," I mutter, walking to get some other things.

We don't speak much at all for the rest of the day.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

Before Sue can get home, I go out.

I grab a water bottle and swap my red heels for my scruffy white trainers and set off for the forest with my phone in hand.

Seeing as Charlie's not talking to me, I don't have to explain myself.

For the first time in so long, I'm desperate to listen to music and once I'm deep enough into the trees that nobody on the outside could hear I flick to the phone app in my phone and blast some of the songs I've still got on there.

My walk changes to a swagger and my shoulders roll with the music and my lips form the words, but I don't quite sing them.

It's a start, though, it's a little bit of progress and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little bit pleased with myself.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

The U-haul truck is there when I get back and Charlie's stood grumpily watching the men offload my boxes and carry them into the house.

"What is all this, Bella?" he snaps as I jog the last bit from the forest to the driveway. "And I've told you not to go into the forest on your own, for Heaven's sake girl, would you listen to me!"

My eyes widen and I lean away from him, choosing to stay stood on the bottom step, choosing to remain silent.

"Are you moving in?" he asks as the men pass us, hauling four more boxes inside. "Explain yourself, because I seem to be caught out of the loop – again."

"I'm between places in LA," I say, which seems the simplest explanation. "I brought my stuff back with me."

"Haven't you ever heard of storage?"

Before I get to answer, there's a distinct _click_ that my ears have become accustomed to behind me and I turn, but nobody's there.

"Let's not do this outside," I say, scanning the front yard as I walk up the steps.

"Why? What's going on?"

"I just heard someone take a picture."

"What? Just now?"

"Yes."

 _Click_.

"They just took another one."

"Really? I can't hear a thing."

I spot a ruffling in the bushes and jog over quickly to see two teenage boys who can't be more than thirteen squatting behind it. They look up at me with a mask of horror and sputter out apologies.

"Sorry, sorry, we just – someone paid us."

"Who?" I ask, reaching down and plucking the phone and camera from their hands. I flick through and delete all of the pictures, then delete them from the deleted area until they don't exist anymore.

"I don't know him," the blonde one says."

"And how much did he pay you?"

"Fifty dollars."

In fairness, at thirteen I probably would've done the same thing for fifty dollars. So, rather than yelling, I settle them with a glare and firmly say, "Don't do it again or I'll get the cops involved and then you'll get a record. Got it?"

With paling faces, they nod their heads then turn to run.

Charlie's watching from the porch, confused. "What's going on? Who were they?"

"Some kids that got paid to take some pictures of me."

"By who?"

"They said they didn't know."

"Those little brats."

"They didn't get any," I shrug, but I'm already wondering if Charlie'd be opposed to setting up a wall around the premises so people can't spy inside. At least, it's distracted Charlie from his rant.

Once all of the boxes are inside, the men drive away. I shift some clothes and other essentials up to my room. As for the rest, my evening is absorbed shifting them from the hall down to the creepy basement where they can be forgotten about for a little while.

I think, maybe that's the curse of Forks. It's a place where, some things, never occur to me and slip my mind but, other things, this place will never let you forget it. And it's always those other things that I'm desperately trying to drown out.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

Sue arrives home.

There is much fuss – a big hug, a big I love you and then a quiet, "And how was rehab?"

I pretend like I don't hear and ask her about her weekend. Like Charlie, she doesn't push. But, unlike Charlie, she has this look in her eye so I know I've not heard the last of it. A look that says 'you can't avoid this forever'.

Oh well. A problem for another time.

 **X**

* * *

 **X**

The next day, I head downstairs and fire up the crippled old computer. It's a nasty habit, but I can't help checking the tabloids.

The same three headlines are on every site check. None of them are kind, but only two matter to me – and those two matter very much.

A picture of me in Church and a video of me getting into Charlie's cruiser are beneath a headline that reads:

Bella Swan Run Home to Father Amidst Drug Abuse Rumours

I gulp and pull at the neck of my black hoodie. I curl my legs into me and tuck my face between my knees.

The next headline is of no consequence to me. It's a supermodel – one of Jessica's friends – wearing a dress with a very, very high slight – so high it exposes her hipbone, and she's ended up flashing the world her nude thong.

It's the third headline that makes my stomach knot itself and churn. It's pictures of La Push beach, and some pictures of the old, abandoned Forks High School campus, and some of the amazing forestry we have locally. The headline reads:

Edward Cullen and Alleged Girlfriend, Lola Evans, Set to Film Some of Their Upcoming Romantic Drama in His Hometown, Forks, Washington.

In the article, to my utter horror, I discover that filming is set to begin tomorrow. Which means people will arrive today, if they haven't already. Which means I'm screwed. My chest feels tight and my breathing is unsteady and sharp.

"Bella? Are you alright?" Sue asks, appearing from the kitchen where she's cleaning up after breakfast and frowning at me.

I can't answer her – I can't form any words.

"Oh no, dear, what's this about?" she approaches me gently, like she might a wild animal. I shake my head and jerk away from the computer, causing my chair to topple over.

Sue takes a glance at the computer screen and turns to me with a frown.

"This is upsetting you?"

I only nod my head, keeling over at the waist and gasping.

"Now, Bella, deep breaths. I've got you."

There's a light touch on my back and I arch away, but she persists and rubs soothing circles anyway.

Once my breathing is regulated, I straighten up and walk into the hall, running up the stairs.

"Bella? Where are you going?"

I don't slam my bedroom door – I just shut it, very soundly.

Sue walks in as I'm grabbing the clothes I've laid out on the floor and stuffing them back into their boxes.

"Oh don't be so dramatic, darling."

I fix her with a glare, but it only makes her laugh.

"You're not leaving on his account, Bella. I won't let him run you from your own soil. It's not right."

"But-"

"No buts," she says adamantly. "You'll be staying in Forks until you're ready to go back."

"It's not about him-"

She throws her head back and laughs outright, shaking at the shoulders. "Goodness, you crack me up, child."

"I'm not joking-"

"Oh, enough, Bella," she huffs, sharper than I've ever seen her. "You might kid yourself, but you're not kidding me. You've let those Cullen boys run your life for five years now – it's time to grow up," she says sternly before turning to leave.

I spend at least five minutes, sat on my floor, properly chastised before I gather myself together.

 _Grow up._

 _Grow up._

 _Grow up, Bella._

 **X**

* * *

 **A/N: Another chapter. Yay :)**

 **Let me know what your thoughts are. Also we get to properly meet Edward next chapter, so there's that to look forward to. :)**


End file.
